


The Hour of the Wolf

by Suaine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, alphas have more fun, for the greater good, oblivious boys, pack puppy pile, stiles is a werewolf, werewolf appropriate violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 54,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles never wanted to be a werewolf, but the choice is taken out of his hands by a series of unfortunate events. When he wakes up his life has become infinitely more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dog Days Are Over

Derek's sister had been the alpha, born to lead the pack in Beacon Hills once she'd reached whatever maturity was necessary to have that kind of power. Their parents had taught her everything and Derek had learned only by proxy, and only what Laura was willing to share. Sometimes, coming from the basement after lessons, she'd looked at him with a sadness that seemed entirely too raw to be anything their parents could have said.

He knew, of course, that his place in the pack was mostly forfeit if that day ever came. A male who'd never vie for the attentions of the female alpha, who couldn't stay because she loved him too much not to bring discordance into the ranks. Suitable unmated males were rare enough in California that his sister couldn't afford to refuse a guy she actually liked to spare her brother a lifetime of submission.

And then everything changed. They didn't think of pack as something that would be again, in those years after the fire, only as a thing lost and buried. Pack was the hole in their hearts, the shape of a burned house, the smell of scorched flesh.

“I'm going back,” Laura said one day, a look of fierce determination on her face. She'd run like the wind and sniff out whatever secrets she thought she needed to know. At first, Derek had let her go, trying to pretend that his heart didn't still beat to the sound of vengeance. He'd wanted to put it all behind him, had even started making connections with a few wolves who'd never heard of Beacon Hills.

But Laura called him twice, voice low and a little hollow, like whatever she'd found just made the burnt out shell of her heart finally crumble into dust. “I need you,” she'd said. And, “please.”

That was the last time he'd ever heard his sister's voice. The next time he'd seen anything of Laura Hale was the body. When he remembered her, when someone said her name, it was that last, quiet word that came to mind.

With the blood of the alpha still fresh on his claws, Derek knew two things: that nothing was more deserved, no death more satisfying, that Laura would be proud. And he knew with sudden, painful clarity, that he was utterly and completely fucked. No one had taught him what he needed to know, and he was about to make a series of mistakes that would probably destroy more than just his own life. He saw it coming and all he could do was greet it with fangs bared and the memory of his sister as a guiding light.

+

Some wolves were highly migratory, claiming huge, empty tracts of land, following their favorite prey across countries if necessary. Werewolves though, their prey had turned from deer and rabbit to microwave dinner and take out. Mostly. They settled where they could, hiding from humans in plain sight, living among them as neighbors and friends.

Those who would still travel hundreds of miles, thousands, sometimes aimless, sometimes with purpose, were often those who couldn't stay in one place too long, who killed blindly and left messy corpses, who made no difference between sheep and shepherd.

A few strays were easy to handle, and after Helen, an old alpha without a pack, and Josh and Gerald, two pups who could best be described as tourists, they all thought they knew how to handle whatever came to Beacon Hills, but they'd never had to deal with a migratory pack. They didn't know about war. None of them were prepared for what they would lose.

+

Derek sighed and handed Stiles an ice pack for his head. For some reason, Stiles managed to get himself hurt more than any of the others, and he didn't have the benefit of magical healing powers or Allison's preternatural luck. Everything stuck to Stiles like some kind of sticky stuff.

“You have to stop,” Derek said under his breath. He meant it to come out authoritative, but it detoured somewhere around worried and kind of broke down in the middle of the road.

Stiles, of course, never made things easy. “Stop what? Stop trying to save your life, because hey, I think I can do that, I don't really care all that much. I could totally stop doing that. Any time.”

Derek was exhausted, they all were. They'd been trying to find and stop the crazy wolf, or wolves, that had come in their territory and slaughtered their way through life stock and neighborhood pets. It was only a matter of time until they would branch to humans and the hunters knew it, too. So between the interlopers and the Argents, Derek's new family had been fighting tooth and claw for nigh on two weeks, fraying at the edges.

“I don't want you out there with us,” Derek said. It was the truth but he knew Stiles would take it the wrong way, would deduce the wrong reasons. That was the plan anyway. Get Stiles to stay safe by triggering his self-esteem issues. He'd sort of promised Scott to keep the kid safe, but that wasn't the reason for that, wasn't why he stared with something like fear and anger at the fingers pressing the ice pack to Stiles' head where a rather spectacular bump had already formed.

Stiles huffed, tucked his knees closer to his chest. He wasn't usually the kind to go for protective body language, always expansive, always in motion. It was working. Derek hated himself a little. “Look,” Stiles said, “I can pull my weight. Next time some asshole swings at me with the barrel of a gun, I'll duck, promise.”

Derek growled. “It's too dangerous for a human.”

Stiles head shoots up, an outraged fire in his eyes. “You let Allison fight for you. You even let Danny come along three nights ago, remember? He tracked that red-furred little bastard with his iPhone.”

True, but then those two were different. “Allison stays out of the way and she can shoot a moving target from a hundred paces.” And Danny wasn't pack, didn't make Derek want to kill with extreme prejudice if he was threatened. He liked the boy fine and would protect him, but he wasn't his responsibility, not like Stiles was. As much as Derek disliked that thought, he knew Stiles would hate it more.

“I can do... stuff.” Stiles had to know how pathetic he sounded, because he winced as he said it. “I just worry, okay? I can't not be there, I can't sit at home waiting to get a call about how my best friend got ripped to shreds by a rival wolf or shot in the head by rogue hunters. I have to be there.”

Derek understood that better than he had words to express. If he'd gone with Laura, if he'd been at home the day of the fire, maybe things would have been different. He might be dead, sure, but there was the faint chance that his presence could have changed things enough to-

“Hey, who came up with the plan the trap our new friends in that abandoned mine, huh? Me, that's right. I'm useful.” Stiles looked not quite sure himself, but he said it with the same cock-sure bravado that got him into trouble and out of it on a daily basis.

Derek closed his eyes to keep the headache at bay that inevitably crept up on him whenever he tried to understand the way Stiles' mind worked. He rubbed his knuckle over his temple, hoping the pressure would make this conversation less painful. Yeah, right. “The mine that half the pack was stuck in for the better part of a day? Yes, I do remember.”

“So it didn't work,” Stiles allowed. “That's hardly my fault, now is it? Trust Scott and Jackson to completely fail at basic physics.”

If Derek hadn't been afraid that Stiles might have a concussion, he might have slapped the back of his head. “You don't need to be out there with us to make plans.”

Stiles reacted as if Derek had slapped him anyway. “Yes, I do. Don't you get it? I haven't got anything else. Maybe I should have taken your uncle's offer, maybe being a wolf would have made me good enough to be a part of this little group, but I didn't and now if I'm not out there doing my part I might as well... aside from my dad, everyone I ever cared about who's still alive is in the living room right now planning how to bait a wolf pack. I need to be here, Derek, you can't take them away from me.”

Stiles agitated little speech would normally have brought out the worst in Derek. They seemed to always do this to each other, poking at little wounds and testing the limits of their frustration. But Derek only blinked, mind looping over the words “your uncle's offer” like sounding them out in his head would make them make sense.

“My uncle... he offered...”

At least Derek's confusion derailed whatever argument Stiles had been about to work himself up to next. “I- what? I thought you knew? When he made me track you down, just before he let me go, he offered to make me a part of his pack, all creepy and- and- like, seductive. Trying to get into my head or whatever.”

Bile gathered at the back of his throat and Derek heard his own blood rushing through his veins. “He offered you the bite, which you refused, and then he let you go?”

Stiles cocked his head, suspicion replacing the self-pity from before. “Why is this important? He said he liked me, maybe it was even true, since he didn't kill me on the spot. Probably he kept me around to make sure Scott wouldn't bail on him. I'm sure it made sense in his fucked up brain.”

Derek's hand shot out to grab Stiles' wrist almost of its own volition. “Why?” Derek pressed out, unable to specify whether he meant “why did my uncle ask you”, or “why did you refuse”, or even “why did he let you go”, mostly because he couldn't figure out which one he most wanted to know or whether he wanted an answer to any of them.

Stiles tugged at his wrist, but didn't break the hold. Testing. “Why what? Why would I refuse such a generous gift and then moan about how I can't keep up? I thought about it, I really did. And he was right, you know, some part of me, some small ridiculous part really wants it. I want to be stronger and faster, I want to smell and see and hear things that no one else can, because maybe, just maybe, the next time my dad has a gun in his face or- or- maybe if I'm strong enough or fast enough, no one else I love ever has to die.”

Stiles unfolded himself, no longer defensive. There was anger in the line of his body and the fear Derek could smell did nothing to deter the teen. “Stiles-”

“No,” Stiles said, close enough to breathe the same air. He smelled like the cold pizza they'd all eaten for lunch. “You listen to me, because this is a life or death thing and you need to stop thinking about it like you just need to wear down my defenses. I can't be a werewolf. I've seen what it does to Scott, how much concentration it takes. I can't do that. I've been on Adderall as long as I can remember and on a good day my mind goes three ways at once, drifting off to weird places I can't control. I might get withdrawal symptoms or panic attacks and what then? I'll kill someone, I kill my dad? That can't happen, ever. I'll claw my own throat out if I have to.”

Knowing exactly what that's like, unable to trust himself, wanting to die rather than hurt anyone he loved, coming out the other side having lost everything and gained nothing, Derek nodded. “Okay.”

Stiles flailed a bit, wind taken out of his sails. “I- okay? Just like that?”

“I can swear if you want. I won't turn you or let any of the others do it.”

Stiles swallowed. “Alright, okay. Yeah. That's- that's good. That's great.”

But Derek wasn't finished quite yet. “If you insist on coming with us, you need to learn to defend yourself.”

+

Hand to hand training with Derek was brutal and Stiles kept asking himself how he had come to make these life choices, how he'd ended up being pounded into floors and slammed into walls and kind of liking it. But he got better at it, learned to duck and weave out of the way, learned to turn the strength and momentum of his enemies against them.

It was a crash course, both literally – the walls of Derek's house would never recover – and figuratively. They didn't have much time until the rival alpha would try again and this time it would be the decisive strike. One more fight, one more chance to shine or really make an ass of himself. So far, Stiles had helped mostly by being bait and distracting the right people at the right time. Maybe now things could be different.

“I think I'm really getting good at this,” Stiles said, from the floor, where Derek had just dropped him for the third time in a row, with the same damn move.

Derek grunted. It wasn't much of an answer, but Stiles would take what he could get. As long as he wasn't being obviously threatened with dismemberment, they were probably doing well. His werewolf communication skills were getting more awesome by the hour.

“No, seriously,” Stiles said as he clambered to his feet. “I think I've gotten the hang of this.” He made the Matrix “come and get this” gesture because it felt appropriate and awesome in equal parts. Derek lunged at him, not wolfing out, but not holding back much either. Stiles let it happen, let the movements flow around him, for once not trying too hard. Derek went for the throat and Stiles dodged sideways, grabbing hold of the outstretched arm and pivoted further to slam his elbow into Derek's face. The resulting crunch was incredibly satisfying and Stiles let go, jumping with glee, before Derek even tumbled to the floor, looking dazed.

“Hah! I told you I could do it! I am so awesome, sometimes I surprise myself.”

Stiles was still in the middle of a celebratory air punch when his cheek hit the hard, dirty floor and Derek breathed above him, Stiles' arm turned painfully against his back. “You need to pay attention.”

Grumbling, Stiles tried to shake Derek off, but the werewolf was heavy and unmoving, his entire body like a huge vise. “I pay attention,” Stiles said, his words disturbing old dust. “I do, it's just, I get distracted.”

Derek's growl went bone deep, making Stiles shiver despite his plan to be less of a wimp when it came to this. He had no idea why he reacted more to Derek's threats than Peter Hale's or a hunter with a gun in his face, it simply happened.

“You get distracted out there, it's not just your own life on the line. We can't afford that. Do you understand?”

Stiles nodded, scraping his cheek along the coarse wood. That would hurt for a while, stubble burn without any of the fun that should come with it. Not that he thought about the fun potential of stubble burn much. It was just that on a scale from one to awesome, stubble burn had to be better than getting rubbed raw by the floor of a not-quite-abandoned house.

+

The irony, of course, was that this time, Stiles did everything right.

When the other alpha called them out, the pack was ready, or ready as they could hope to be. They were armed with fire grenades (thank you, Lydia) and Allison's bow, even Stiles and Danny each had a stick to beat people with if necessary. They were using Stiles' jeep as a mobile platform for the humans and the wolves kept pace with it as they entered enemy territory in the warehouse district.

Derek had been offended on behalf of his kind when it became clear that the rival pack was operating from the depths of the town, with not a tree in sight, but everyone else saw the sense in it. The warehouses and abandoned factories made for a labyrinth of walls and dead ends. Lighting was inadequate for humans, but werewolves would have a lot of shadows to hide in.

“It's unnatural,” Derek grumbled as they stood in front of the chain link fence that divided the industrial parts of town from the residential area right beside it.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mr. Sourwolf. I bet they even have iPads.”

They invaded the enemy's territory with a lot less stealth than perhaps they should have, but Derek projected a certain injured pride about the fact that another pack was getting cozy in his town. It didn't sit right and subtle was not the way to deal with that kind of usurper. They burst into the deserted district with howls and the screech of tires.

Waiting for them were five snarling dogs, dressed up in biker leathers, with chains wrapped around their chests or arms for extra bad-ass points. Stiles couldn't help but laugh, it was just so ridiculous. These guys, these five vagabonds, had dared to come into their town and tried to stir up shit like it was a bad western. He laughed because these creepers had killed to draw out Derek, to draw out the pack, but in the light of orange street lamps, they were pathetic.

Even so, when the fighting started, Stiles knew better than to do anything but duck and run. He'd caught the attention of one of the little ones, a runt like him, but faster and stronger for being a wolf. He couldn't hope to get away, but that wasn't the plan. All he needed were fifteen seconds and a corner to slip around. The wolf at his heels, Stiles felt better than he had for days, he felt like finally things were working out in his favor. The hunt was exhilarating, prey or not. He stumbled past the alley where he knew Danny had laid their trap and cursed, scrambled backwards and almost fell right into the taut wire.

He vaulted over the line and slowed, walking into the dead end. He didn't need to act afraid, his instincts were taking care of that for him just fine.

The wolf laughed behind him. He sounded like the demented hyena from the first Lion King. “Come out, little mouse.”

Stiles laughed, too, nervous and high on adrenaline. “You know what your problem is? You wolves all live in the past, like some kind of medieval throwback. You think with your claws and your teeth and your frankly impressive muscles you are somehow better than us, but here's a hint, dude, we humans? We invented the freaking atomic bomb and the internet.”

The wolf did not seem impressed. Framed in the mouth of the alley, he looked like a comic book villain, one of the ones the Midnighter tore apart on the way to his little girl's kindergarten. Stiles grinned and waited for the trap to snap shut and snap shut it did. Magnificently. The nets were industrial strength fishing equipment Stiles had ordered online and they were worth every penny of Derek's mysterious money. The wolf made a strangled, whining sound, and while he was dazed Stiles jumped forward to catch his wrists in the handcuffs Stiles had stolen from his dad. Borrowed. Whatever.

“Hah,” Stiles said, fists pumping, “that's for calling me a mouse, Snoopy.”

As he crept out the alley, Stiles could see that the rest of the plan was going a little lopsided. Derek, facing off against the other alpha, had a nasty gash across his face and his skin was flapping in the wind. Yeah, uh, not good. Worse was the way Danny and Allison stood back to back, being circled by the two largest wolves, while neither Scott nor Jackson where anywhere in sight. Lydia had the last beta where he was supposed to be, but she hadn't managed to get the upper hand yet.

Stiles didn't have any weapons, other than the short, blunt stick they'd allowed him to have. Between him and Allison they should have had access to assault rifles and shotguns, but somehow the adults in their lives, other than Derek, were reluctant to let them anywhere near the heavy weaponry. Considering his freaking stick of mediocrity, maybe even Derek considered them too young to handle M4s responsibly.

So Stiles did what any teenager in his situation would – he hopped into his jeep and hit the gas, aiming vaguely for one of the betas circling his two most vulnerable friends. The standoff scattered and Stiles grinned as he came to a stop.

“Come with me if you want to live,” he said as Danny rolled his eyes.

With Allison and Danny marginally safer, the betas were going to pick a new target. Lydia had finally overcome the Billy Idol wannabe she'd been fighting, so now it was just the three biggest and baddest of the wolves. Great.

Both Derek and the rival alpha had shifted into their animal forms, a sleek black almost-wolf facing against a brutish, mottled monster that looked about as wolfish as Peter Hale had before his death. There was something wrong with the other alpha, something that made him more into the physical manifestation of evil rather than an animal. Derek, for all his lean muscle and speed, looked small and insignificant compared to his opponent.

Jackson and Scott had come back from whatever hit they'd taken before, a little roughed up but more angry for it, feral and dangerous. All three of them charged the alpha, barking out their anger and frustration. The alpha batted them away like flies, throwing them out of the cone of orange light and into the shadows.

Stiles felt his heart race, but for once his mind was clear, calm. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles showing white. “It's time,” he said, voice rough as if he hadn't used it in days.

In the rear view mirror he could see Danny shaking his head. “It's still a terrible idea. Derek is going to kill you.”

Stiles shrugged, watching as the alpha threw Derek and Lydia into a row of barrels, listening as they landed with a sickening thump. “Yeah, well, that's the risk we have to take. At least he'll be alive to try it.”

He looked to Allison, ready to defend his choices, to beg for her help if necessary, but her mouth was set in a thin line, determination written all across her face. “Allison?”

She gave him a horrid, brittle smile. “No worries,” she said, “I've got your back.”

While their pack was nipping at the alpha, the two remaining rival wolves circled the fight, waiting. The arrogance of their alpha was, perhaps, the only reason this was even still a fight at all. Even four against one, Derek and his pack were going to lose. Stiles could see it in the easy confidence of the two thugs, could see it in the way the alpha stood like a mountain.

Well, he'd told the alpha's little friend, brute strength wasn't all there was. They'd discussed the nets with Derek, even the grenades, but between him and Danny and Allison, they'd kept one small yet significant secret. Wolfsbane pellets. Amazingly potent, but really only a last resort. The thing to have in hand when a wolf was breathing right into your face. He and Danny had thrown them together in the chem lab after hours, coating them with anise to cover the scent of death. And when Scott kept trying to lick Stiles' hands afterward, they'd decided to seal them air tight until they were needed. Wouldn't do to get their own wolves killed by accident.

“Okay,” Stiles said, breathing ragged. He felt like he was about to do something seriously stupid again, something that would earn him that look from Derek that usually ended with a spot of manhandling or a slap to the back of his head. “Let's do this.”

He stepped out of the car, his gloved hand reaching into his jacket.

+

It was Derek's fault.

The fighting had worn him down, made him depend on his animal instinct more than human logic. He kept up their attacks against the alpha, but he knew deep down that this was going badly. He should get the kids to leave, hold these thugs off for as long as he could, give his pack a chance to escape. He should do a lot of things, but the animal rage in his veins made him slow and stupid, if not his body then certainly his mind. He noticed when the tide of the battle changed though, noticed when the smell of fear spiked not in his pack but in the alpha in front of him, a pungent, sour scent. The whining howls from the two betas made his fur prickle.

He looked around, confused, and found that Stiles' arm was stuck in a werewolf's muzzle up to his elbow. Enough blood dripped slowly down those off-white teeth that Derek felt something in his chest constrict with fear and a primal undirected rage. The look on Stiles' face though, that was something else, something unexpected. He looked triumphant, almost gleeful despite the pain. And then the wolf fell away, muscles going slack before convulsing on the ground, his jaw dripping pink foam and a terrible yelp coming from the depths of his chest. The sound of death.

Stiles grinned, vicious and entirely human.

Derek just stared. For too long a second he was rooted in place, both fear and a strange kind of arousal warring for dominance and leaving him breathless. They stared at each other, Stiles with a dying werewolf at his feet, Derek with an enemy at his back. Something happened between them, something odd and not quite good, but not bad either. A pack thing, a wolf thing, something he had no real framework for, no words to describe, because he'd never been meant to know.

The alpha barked his hatred into the night. Derek knew in that moment that he had made a mistake, had forgotten the lessons of his kind. Never turn your back on an enemy, not even a beaten one, not even for a second. Stiles' eyes widened, seeing what Derek could not, and then everything happened in stunning 3D technicolor slow motion.

Stiles barreled into Derek with enough force to push him out of the way, enough force to make him roll over his shoulder and land awkwardly on his hind legs, slightly dazed. The alpha snapped his jaws shut where Derek's throat would have been and bit down on Stiles' raised arm. Claws dug deep into the unprotected human torso as the two of them crashed to the ground, and why in hell hadn't they stolen vests along with the handcuffs?

Someone screamed, a sound that made Derek's blood freeze in his veins. An arrow hit the alpha in the shoulder. The magnificent beast raised his head from where he had been about to tear Stiles' face off. Pulling his claws from soft flesh with a wet pop, the alpha opened his jaws to howl revenge or premature victory. Derek tensed to launch himself at the alpha, tear him to pieces, but then Stiles yelled something garbled and threw a small object right into the open maw.

The alpha died with a look of surprise on his face.

Derek felt rooted, paralyzed, his animal nature not yet sure of their victory. Slowly, time seemed to pick up again, flow more freely around him, and the first thing he heard was Lydia.

“Oh fuck, his lips are going blue, we have to get him to a hospital right now.”

The reality of Stiles lying still and quiet in a pool of blood filtered into Derek's consciousness. The pack crowded around him, fluttering like butterflies. Scott, of course, Scott with a mother who was a nurse and a job at the vet's – Scott yelled and pushed and growled them into submission. Lydia brought out her phone from some hidden pocket and Danny ran toward the jeep.

Derek shook the fog from his brain, shook the wolf out of his skin, and took a deep breath. “Jackson,” he yelled, “you and Allison take my car, take the wolves to the house and lock them up. Meet us at the animal clinic.”

Scott looked at him, nodded, and lifted his best friend off the ground. His eyes never left Derek's as he spoke, not a hint of a question in his voice. “We'll call Dr. Deaton on the way. He should still be there but I'm not taking chances. Not with Stiles.”

Derek shivered and pulled the wolf back around him like a cloak, would call it modesty and lie. With Danny driving, the jeep was a cramped tin can of death, but they got where they needed to be fast enough to make a difference. All Derek would remember from that drive was Stiles' thready voice.

“This is it, isn't it? Good day to die and all that bullshit.” Wet coughs interrupted Stiles' train of thought, made him unfocused and more fragmented than normal. “Someone's got to tell my dad. Oh god, I'm going to die and he's going to be alone.” Then his eyes focused, for a too short moment, focused on Derek and for once there was no surrender to the wolf in their depths. “You'll take care of him and don't you dare argue. I die because you're an idiot, you got a life debt- huh, death debt? Some kind of debt.”

Stiles faded in and out through the rest of the ride, talking about his mother and the last time she'd made him french toast for dinner, because Stiles had always been weird about food, even as a child. And then, just as they were trying to maneuver him out of the jeep without jostling him too much, Stiles whimpered and said, “I want my dad,” before passing out completely.

Derek knew, even as he punched in the number on Scott's mobile, that this was another mistake, but not one he'd ever regret.

+

Years as Sheriff had taught him one thing: when the dispatcher was trying to spare is feelings shit was about to get rough. Even after the accident and with Stiles' behavioral issues, this was the call he never thought he'd get. Not because he had any illusions about the fairness of the universe, because that stopped being anything but a dream when the drunk driver, not a scratch on him, walked away from the crash that killed his wife. No, he never thought he would get this call, because it was goddamned surreal.

“He's where?”

Dispatch gave him the address of the animal clinic, again, like he hadn't heard the first time. “It was that Hale kid; Derek. If you ask me, he's probably got something to do with it, whatever it is.”

But he didn't ask. He didn't need to ask. He still remembered how his son had admitted to maybe knowing Derek better than they'd let on, while Lydia Martin lay in a coma six feet away. Derek Hale had been at the center of everything bad that had happened in this town for the last six months, starting with the death of Derek's sister.

He rubbed his temple, speeding along the deserted road. Hale hadn't related much more than the basic necessities – that it involved Stiles and that the Sheriff's presence was needed immediately, no questions.

The vagueness of the information made his mind jump to the worst possibilities. His imagination provided all the ways Stiles could have gotten himself seriously hurt or killed, everything in a neat, clinical evaluation of horror. He couldn't stop, because if he stopped thinking he would have to start feeling and that would be worse.

Someone was waiting outside the clinic. As he brought his patrol car to a screeching halt, he recognized the Martin girl, Lydia. She looked exhausted, like she'd been crying. Dread crept up his spine and for a moment he wanted nothing more than to turn around, flee and never face whatever was hidden within those walls.

Lydia took his arm when he reached the door, not to lead or steady. She was holding him back. “Stiles is in there,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “He's alive, but he's been hurt. There is a reason why we're here and not at the hospital. Please, try to stay calm. Whatever you do, try to stay calm, all right? Do it for Stiles.”

Letting go of his arm, she opened the door and gestured him inside. She didn't follow.

He heard voices from the surgery, angry hisses and the yelps of a scared dog. Maybe, he thought, maybe Stiles was perfectly fine and this was all just a silly misunderstanding. He wouldn't even yell very much at them for freaking him out. Everything was going to be-

Fine.

He noted the blood almost clinically, the way it pooled under the exam table before running down the drain. Stiles' wrist looked small and pale under the bright lights. A huge black dog sat in the far corner, almost invisible in the shadows. And Scott was-

Scott looked-

“What the hell is going on here?”

Dr. Deaton, completely undisturbed in his work, gave Scott a short nod that released the teen from where he was holding on to-

Those insane fingernails left red marks on pale skin.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Scott said, and his voice sounded rough and deep and not entirely human. “Sir, please, you need to calm down.”

Calm, right. Because Scott didn't look like a dog in a mullet, and his son wasn't bleeding out on a vet's table.

Oh god.

He felt his heart thrum in his chest and the panic made him reach for his gun, not to draw, but for the knowledge it was there. The holster was empty and suddenly he felt stuck in a nightmare, sure that when he woke up Stiles would be okay and everything would feel utterly silly instead of this bone-deep horror.

Lydia's voice, distorted with the same animal filter as Scott's, came from somewhere behind him. “I may have taken a precaution. I apologize for that.” He didn't need to turn around to know that she had taken his gun.

He couldn't run. His escape was cut off and where would he go? Stiles was all he had. Stiles, who looked so pale. Stiles, who didn't move at all.

“Sir, he's going to be okay.” Danny, at least, seemed to be perfectly normal, no strange rumbling in his voice, no bad hair and teeth out of a dark fairy tale. Just a kid who was somehow involved in nearly getting his son killed.

Stiles. Fuck. This couldn't be happening.

“Someone better explain to me right now, or I swear to god I will not rest until every last one of you has paid for-”

Dr. Deaton, the man whose hands were still drenched in his son's blood, calmly walked up to him and punched him in the mouth. “Stop yelling, you fool. Your panicked shrieking isn't going to fix this any more than these idiots will.”

From his vantage point hunched against the doorjamb, the Sheriff could finally see clearly. He saw the rage in the doctor's eyes, the guilt and pain in the set of Scott's shoulders. He could smell the metallic tang of blood.

“Please,” he said, because there was nothing else, nothing to demand or offer.

Deaton's glare lasted too long to be comfortable, the silence more dagger than shield. No one else moved, except for Scott, who'd made his way back to Stiles and seemed to be touching him for reassurance, running his claws – goddamn claws, that's what they were – over every bit of unbroken skin he could reach.

“You're here,” Deaton said, voice hard and unforgiving, “because Stiles asked for you to be here. What happened is that your kid and his friends are all really fucking stupid, taking on things they don't understand and getting burned.” The doctor turned to glare at the big black thing in the corner. “It's what happens when children play at adult things.”

Shaking his head, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose hard, rubbing the skin raw, the Sheriff tried to get a grip on a rapidly dwindling reality. “Could you just stop with the bullshit and tell me?”

Deaton laughed, a sound that was more brittle than angry. “You might not believe it, despite the evidence right before your eyes.”

Under the bright lights, everything looked surreal, impossible, but he made a gesture for Deaton to continue. He'd make his own choices about what to believe when he had all the necessary information.

“As far as I can tell,” Deaton said, starting to scrub his hands in the basin by the door, “these idiots went and tried to take out a gang of werewolves hanging around the warehouses.” Deaton checked for his reaction, but what was there to say? Werewolves. His son bleeding out under fluorescent lights. He could believe just about anything. “Right, werewolves. They're real. They're stronger and faster than humans, especially the ones we call alphas.” Gaze flickering to the corner again, Deaton shook his head minutely. “Werewolves are very territorial, they don't like it when another pack is encroaching on what they think is theirs. Delusional, the lot of them, but what can you do against nature, right?”

The Sheriff's mind was still stuck on werewolves. “Scott?”

Scott looked up from Stiles' prone form, but Deaton was the one who answered. “Yes.”

“But-”

“And the lovely lady behind you, as well as Jackson Whittemore and Derek Hale. Which is as good an explanation as any why the rest of them, who are quite human, were stupid enough to get in a territorial pissing contest with werewolves. It's a failure of leadership if you ask me.” That, like many of the harshest words, was directed at the creature in the shadows, a creature that no longer remotely reminded him of a dog.

“But more than anything, you need to know that there is nothing we can do for Stiles but wait.”

The Sheriff swallowed the worst of his mindless anger and fear. There wasn't any point. He had no control here, no way to make a difference. “What's going to happen to him?”

Deaton sighed and placed a damp hand on his shoulder. “He was bitten tonight. His injuries aside, that alone could still kill him. Not everyone reacts the same way, but if he gets through the night, he will be one of them.”

And that was it. That was the whole of it, the horrific, unbelievable truth. His son was either dying or turning into a monster and there was nothing he could do. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” and holy shit, that was Derek Hale in the corner, naked and as feral as Scott despite his entirely human appearance, maybe more so for the memory of the beast that had occupied the space just moments ago, “he needs you to be here. He asked for you.”

As a father, the Sheriff had not always known what to do, had not always been able to do right by Stiles. If all he had left were a few hours then he could damn well make them count.

He'd thought the kids would drift away. Stiles had never had many friends, there had only been Scott and the people playing his internet games. Deaton had cleaned Stiles up a little more, careful of the large, angry stitching and Lydia had covered him in clean sheets and a blanket that smelled like wet dog. And they waited. Jackson and Allison came and everyone silently joined the vigil. There were no tears, not yet, not when there was still hope.

Perhaps. Hope that his son would wake up a monster.

The kids took turns huddling in the waiting area, keeping up meaningless conversation in hushed whispers, except for Derek Hale - now thankfully clothed in someone's faded t-shirt and track pants - who lurked around the table like some kind of guard dog.

An hour after midnight the convulsions began. Derek had hold of Stiles' legs and Scott and Lydia were holding down his arms to keep him from catapulting off the table. Someone, maybe the Sheriff himself, was telling Stiles that everything would be okay. It felt like a lie carved into the painful grimace on Stiles' face.

Then the wounds began to fade.

It was a hollow victory, but the tension in the room noticeably shifted from the edge of despair to something like anticipation. Sitting in a chair next to the exam table, head pillowed on his arm where it crowded into Stiles' shoulder, the Sheriff began to doze off.

+

On Stiles' personal scale of awful shit that happened to him, waking up on a cold slab of metal with his father and Doc Deaton looking down at him with equally terrifying and terrified expressions ranked just below getting abducted and nearly molested by Peter Hale. Depending on the amount of pain that was about to hit and how much he'd fucked up to get himself here, it might just jump to the runner-up spot. (Nothing could ever be as bad as losing his mom; that just wasn't a competition.)

“Hey,” he said, trying for an innocent smile. “What's going on?”

Play stupid, play stupid and everything would turn out okay. It was a shitty thing to do, but what other option was there? He couldn't quite remember what had happened last night, though he suspected it had to do with their awesome plan to boot that other pack out of Beacon Hills for good. It had to be done and he knew Derek liked the fish nets. Heh.

Focus, Stiles. Grown ups were talking.

“-were bitten.”

Wait a minute. “What?”

His dad looked at the Doc, one of those looks that were more like a negotiation. The Doc sighed and caught Stiles' attention. “You were bitten by a werewolf.”

Stiles swallowed. Right, sure. He didn't feel like a furry super villain, but sure, it made sense considering the whole memory loss thing and, well, he was apparently lying half-naked on an exam table at the animal clinic, so why not. He should be freaking out, but all he felt was numb and tired.

He was probably dreaming. He'd had nightmares like this, although frankly there was usually more blood. “Sure,” he said, nodding a little. “Is this the part where you tell me I've killed someone? Because that- that would really suck.”

“Stiles,” his dad said, “it's okay. You haven't killed anyone.” But he sounded kind of cagey about that. Kind of shifty. Like maybe that wasn't the whole truth.

And then, finally, Stiles felt his heart beat hard in his chest, loud and out of control. His blood rushed in his ears, blocking out the sounds of traffic and the damn chirping of early birds. Two things became very clear – he was not dreaming and he was working himself into a genuine panic attack. He was shaking, his teeth clacking with the tremors. He couldn't breathe.

“Dammit,” he heard through the fog of his anxiety. “Do something!”

The sharp sting of a needle - nothing compared to the burn in his chest - brought him back down. Sedative. Something that made him feel fuzzy; cotton padded and warm like fur. “Did you seriously just drug me? What kind of doctor are you? I could have an allergy or a reaction with my other meds. This is so unprofessional. Huh. I... feel kind of sleepy. That's... really not okay.”

He tried to tuck his hands under his head, tried to turn on his side to sleep the sleep of the righteous curled up in a ball when he realized that he was strapped to the table. Were those handcuffs? Fuck, they were handcuffs. His legs were tied down as well, and how in god's name had he not noticed that, like, at all?

Okay, so he was tied up like an animal, or one of those psychiatric patients in those crazy-girl-sploitation movies. He was Angelina Jolie, hell yeah. Except for the part where he was also most likely Wolverine.

Wait, that had to be at least a ten on the cool scale.

Cool. Like Derek's scowl, Derek who really should be here and stare at him disapprovingly. Or maybe he had that backwards because he was pretty sure he'd told that fucker not to turn him. And where was his best friend when he needed him? Stiles had been there from the start with the whole wolf thing, nearly getting killed and doing all that awesome research. Why wasn't Scott here, looking like a big, sad, guilty puppy?

“Dad,” he said, slurring the word like the last, sludgy spoonful of ice cream in the tub. “Where's Scott?”

The silence that followed was so thick even the ever present white noise in his head got dulled. He forced his eyes open, a little surprised that they'd been closed in the first place. When had that happened? “Dad?”

“Son,” his dad said in the same voice that had once uttered the words, “I'm sorry, but she won't be coming back.” Well, shit. He'd killed Scott. Oh god, fuck. “Calm down, son. He's fine. They're all... fine. You didn't hurt them.”

Stiles' heart fluttered, beat out of sync, harder than it had any right to when he was tranq'd up to his eyeballs. “But I tried to, didn't I? I went all crazy wolfboy on everyone and now they hate me forever.” The words came slowly. He felt sluggish, like the worst mornings, between waking from vivid, beautiful, terrible dreams and finding his way to the bathroom, where control could be had in a tiny orange bottle.

Doc Deaton coughed to draw attention back to his seriously pissed off face. Stiles didn't know what he'd done, but most likely he was going to pay the Doc back with his allowance until he was thirty for whatever damage he'd caused. “As I said, you were bitten. Unfortunately there were some complications.”

“Complications like chopping off important bits of my anatomy complications? Or the kind where I go into a murderous rage and kill everyone I care about?”

Deaton crossed his arms and scowled. Wow, okay, that guy could totally give Derek a run for his money. “You killed an alpha werewolf after he bit you. We don't know if that's why or if you just have the natural predilection for it, but you didn't wake up as a normal beta.”

“I... didn't?” He blinked. Maybe he was like one of those omegas he'd read about, but that didn't explain why the pack wasn't here, why he felt like they'd never been further from him.

“Stiles,” his dad began gently, like a man trying to soothe a wild animal. “Hale... Derek, he said- he said you'd be like him. Very powerful. And dangerous. They wanted to be here, but they couldn't. We were afraid you'd hurt yourself trying to get at them.”

Oh. Well, fuck his life.

+

Everyone stay at house after, slumped on the old couch and spread out over the sagging mattresses that were his excuse for furniture. Derek stared at the new wallpaper and waited for some kind of revelation. There had been a fireplace here once; it would have been a much better distraction. There were little wolves on this wallpaper, invisible from further away, and that had to have been Stiles' idea. No one else would dare.

“Maybe there is a drug, a plant, something we can give him?” Scott sounded unsure and agitated. He'd be the first to break, the first to try and engineer a meeting. It would not end well.

Derek turned to glare at the boy. “A drug to do what? He's a rival alpha now, just like the monster we took down.”

“But that's not what's going to happen,” Allison began, disbelief in every line of her. “Is it? We're not going to kill Stiles.”

Scott yelped, jumping to his feet in agitation. “Of course not. No one is killing Stiles.”

Stiles might. If it came down to him or everyone he loved, Stiles would have no idea how to choose himself. He'd set himself on fire or shoot himself in the head. He'd find a way. Derek clenched his fists, forcing the wolf under control.

“You can't be near him,” Derek said, looking at each of them in turn. “Even more than trying to create a new pack, he'll feel the urge to kill you. This is his territory as much as it is ours. He'll see you as trespassers. There can't be two packs in one place and he won't know how to control himself.”

“Then you have to teach him, Derek.” Scott got into his face, not backing down, not about this.

Derek sighed. “I'm not even sure how. This whole thing, it's just as new to me.” Everyone fell silent at that particular revelation. He hadn't meant to say it, exactly, but- “I'm only alpha because my entire family died. My sister was always meant to be it, she was born that way. She could turn into a fluffy cub before she could talk. But even she should have had two, maybe three decades to learn everything important, the history and the politics and the biology.”

“So,” said Lydia, suddenly commanding everyone's rapt attention with nothing more than the sound of her voice. If he didn't know better, he'd wonder if she was an alpha, too. She had the presence for it. “What you're really saying here is that there are different sorts of alphas.”

Derek swallowed his first instinct of snapping at her and nodded slightly. “I suppose-”

“No shut up for a minute, I'm thinking.” They all knew by now that Lydia never joked about that and never came up empty. She began to pace the room, her hair flowing hypnotically behind her. “Helen wasn't a threat because she'd given up the notion of her own pack. She just wanted a quiet place to die. And children aren't a threat because they're family, the same pack by default- kind of like proto-alphas. Spouses, too.” The look she gave him was so full of pity, Derek wanted to rip something, tear something to shreds. He waited for her to continue, but she seemed hesitant. “There may not be room for a second pack in Beacon Hills, but there is room for more than one alpha in a pack, isn't there?”

Crossing his arms defensively was a terrible life choice, and yet. Derek closed his eyes, tried to tune out every distraction. He knew what she was thinking, knew what she was asking of him, but it was impossible. “No,” he said, quiet but without doubt. “I know what you're thinking, but it wouldn't work. We can't just pretend to be... _that_.” Their eyes were on him know, judgmental and oddly disappointed. He shrugged the weight off and rolled his shoulders. “We'll see about teaching him what he needs to know. Maybe none of this speculation is even necessary.”

But in his heart he knew that things would never be okay unless they could somehow find a way to fill the Stiles-shaped hole in their pack. There would be no substitutes.

“Right,” Lydia said, pouting a little. “Then the first thing you'll need is a new laptop. Werewolf aggression is based mostly on body language and pheromones; there is no law against skyping, is there?”

Derek could only shake his head and wonder what his life had become.


	2. Leave All Your Love And Your Longing Behind

Waking up was a little like breaking through the surface of a hot spring in winter, pressure traded for white mist and nothing was any clearer. Stiles groaned and burrowed deeper into his blanket, hoping against hope that he could somehow slip back into the dream. The images were just out of reach and the emotions already faded. The sounds and smells of the real world intruded mercilessly.

Stiles rolled out of bed. It was an accomplishment, and if he didn't still feel bruised and wrung out, he'd pat himself on the back. “It's a new day, buddy. And, oh, hey! You're a werewolf!” The room stayed unhelpfully silent. For some reason his furniture didn't appreciate the giant clusterfuck his life had become, but then his furniture was an asshole.

He giggled to himself and rolled his eyes at the same time, making a grab for some pants from a pile of not too dirty clothes. There was a system to the madness much more complex than just “clean = drawers, dirty = floor” and Stiles ruled the system with-

Ugh, the smell of his own clothes was making him nauseous. Awesome. Fresh shirt, fresh shirt, dammit all he had was the bright yellow monstrosity he'd gotten at a con right around the time they'd released the original series of Star Trek on DVD. It was smaller than he remembered. Huh. He made a mental note to get some laundry done, looked down at his yellow-clad chest and made an actual note where he was sure to find it. Maybe.

On the way out the door he heard his phone beep with an incoming text message and he nearly fell all over himself getting back to his bed. The phone was somehow stuck between his rumpled sheets and the mattress, which hey, that was new.

_Good morning, Sunshine._ It was from Scott and Stiles could tell he was worried. He always capitalized properly when he was worried.

He tapped out a quick answer –  _missed you last night you ass –_ and grinned at the implication. If anyone ever stole Scott's phone they'd probably come to some pretty interesting conclusions about the two of them. It also annoyed Scott, which was a nice bonus.

His thoughts drifted back to the long night and it hit him again that things had gone decidedly pear shaped. Or maybe apple shaped. Orange? Breakfast! Right, he'd been going to breakfast, like a normal person who wasn't at all a werewolf. As he stumbled down the stairs the smell of pancakes made his mouth water and also, what?

“Dad?” There was no way his dad was making breakfast, not in a million years. He would have been at work, at the station or patrolling the streets. This was possibly weirder than waking up a werewolf. “Dad, is that you?”

His dad was wearing an apron. That would mess with his head later on, he was sure of it. His dad turned around, glanced toward the table, then at Stiles with a slightly crooked smile. He looked shaken in the way only the worst cases ever managed. The ones that had dead kids or mutilated women and no one to blame.

There was a tranquilizer gun on the table.

“Really?” It made sense, it really did. Stiles was untrained, uncontrolled and prone to emotional outbursts, had a history of panic attacks and trouble focusing even under the influence of his meds. It made sense to take precautions, but still. “Better safe than sorry, huh?” He sounded kind of whiny to his own ears, which was probably okay because he felt whiny.

His dad sighed, put down the flat utensil thingy and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I've got mine right here,” he said, nodding at his belt, “that one is for you. In case you start feeling out of control.”

Stiles blinked. Huh. “That's actually a better idea than I came up with and no, I'm not telling you what it was. So I just, like, point it at myself and pull the trigger?”

“Try not to aim at your head, okay? And don't aim it at anyone who isn't a fairy tale creature, these chemicals are pretty potent stuff.”

Stiles took the gun, tested its weight in his hand. It looked very much like a regular handgun with an elongated barrel. “I can't take this to school. I'll be expelled and you'll lose your job.”

“You're not going to school today,” his dad said, crossing his arms like that was any way to strengthen his argument.

“I hope you realize that this whole crossing-your-arms-like-Xena thing doesn't actually win any fights and what do you mean I'm not going to school?” He'd thought about it, of course he had, somewhere between “holy shit werewolf” and “I can smell the neighbor's dog” he'd wondered how it would work, if it would be very different to Scott's somewhat disastrous adjustments.

“Derek has suggested that we should be very careful how we expose you to your usual environment. He's been very persuasive.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, feeling a hum and a burn at the base of his skull. “Right, yes, because we should totally listen to Derek freaking Hale.” A red-orange haze obscured his thoughts and the burn became a roar. Derek had no right to come into his life and rearrange everything. He had no right!Stiles heard himself growl and blinked at the heavy, cold weight at his throat. The world snapped back into focus and he found himself looming over his dad, the tranq gun pressed into the side of his throat, right under his jaw where his jugular pulsed rapidly.

“Stiles! Snap out of it!”

He took a step back, suddenly sick. There were no words for the sinking of his stomach, the bile in his throat, the way he wanted to shake his head and deny everything. Fuck.

“I'm... going to go to my room now.” His own voice sounded foreign to him, flat and brittle. “I need to...”

“Stiles-”

He swallowed, backing away. “It's okay, Dad.” He wanted to mean it, he did. He wanted to be strong and get through this and make everything okay again, because that look on his dad's face was the same he'd had the day of the accident and every day for a long time after that. Stiles had lived the last few years to get rid of that look – he hadn't always been good at it and sometimes he'd fucked up spectacularly, but he'd tried. He was not going to be the cause of it.

Stumbling up the stairs and into his room, he felt his chest constrict, his breath coming fast and ragged. In his room, with the door slammed firmly behind him, he fell into a heap of limbs and desperation. Something like a keening, whining howl worked itself out of his throat without permission and certainly without his control. It sounded like the last dying gasps of a terrified rat, not even a strangled cat. He felt sorry for making fun of Scott's attempts at howling and wondered, briefly, if someone somewhere was shaking their head at him right this second.

The ring of his phone brought him out of the haze of self-pity. He scrambled for it with less than his usual grace, which was just a step up from random seizures, really.

  
“What?” He bit out the sound, shivered when it reminded him of barking.

“If you don't calm the fuck down right now, I will rip your ears off and stuff them in your-”

Stiles laughed, he couldn't help it. “Dude, whoa. Just, that threat is so out of style, it's literally last winter.” This, at least, felt normal. Derek made hilariously outrageous threats, Stiles laughed at him despite some very real fear making cold sweat pool at the base of his spine. “Also, are you lurking in my yard or something?”

“Stiles,” the other alpha growled into the phone. And whoa, but that thought would need some getting used to. They were like salt and pepper shakers now, a matched set of sourwolf and hyperpuppy. He giggled, high pitched and a little too hysterical for his taste. “Stiles, you need to calm down. Breathe.”

Hah, that was a good one. Breathing. “Right, yeah, breathing. I've seen a video on youtube about it once. It was hilarious.”

Derek sighed the sigh of people having to deal with Stiles on his less than ideal days. “Of course you have.”

There was something he should have said, some joke to crack, but suddenly all he felt was tired. He noticed he was shaking only when the phone nearly dropped from his fingers. “Derek, I...”

“Stiles?”

The lump in his throat was an immovable object and he wasn't going to have any groundbreaking physics discovery with just spit. The lump stayed and all the swallowing did was hurt him. “I nearly mauled my father to death.” His words tasted like blood.

“What happened?” Derek's calm voice, it was usually a sign that things had gone from bad to fubar.

“What do you think happened? I lost control, he pulled a gun on me and I ran away.” The following silence weighed heavy on his chest. What was there to say? He'd been right after all and he really wished he hadn't been.

“You're an idiot,” Derek said, which, wait. What? “Do you think if you had really wanted to hurt him, if you had really lost control, that your dad would have survived threatening you with a gun?”

Stiles breathed a little easier. Being called an idiot by Derek somehow soothed the frantic, fluttering panic in his head. “I don't know, man. I completely blanked and then I was all growly and up in his space. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't snapped out of it.”

“The wolf part of you is not separate, you know.” Derek's voice was soft in a way that only the black, shining fur at the tips of his alpha form's ears was ever soft. “It is you, a feral, violent version of you, but still essentially the same. It respects our human bonds even when it does not understand them. Your father is pack in all the ways that matter.”

Stiles remembered waking up on a metal table. “If that were true, wouldn't Scott have been there last night? He's the closest I've got to family other than my dad.”

With his new senses Stiles could pick up the faint sound of Derek's heart beating faster, the deliberate breath he took before speaking. “That's a little more complicated. There are certain instincts that you will have to learn to ignore or control.”

A nervous laugh bubbled up from deep within him. “Like what, murdering all my friends and eating unsuspecting bystanders for dinner?”

“Yes,” Derek said gravely.

+

It had occurred to him that teaching Stiles would bring up emotions he'd long thought buried and forgotten. During his time in New York, Derek had done everything in his power to forget what it was like to live in a house full of wolves, to run into a familiar face every time he turned a corner both in his home and in town. Laura had watched his efforts with a certain resigned sadness – she had understood his reasons well enough that she couldn't object. Not when her own heart was shattered. She, at least, had tried to start over, make contact with the resident pack, try to find a place for them, but even in New York two lost pups had nowhere to go. An established pack might have use for an unattached alpha female but none would take a headstrong teenage beta in the deal.

And she'd spoken to him, late at night when they both couldn't sleep from guilt and loneliness, about the urges to take new blood, to rip apart the wolves who stood against them. She'd had deep circles under her eyes, exhaustion written in every line of her face. “I feel like a helium balloon, kiddo. Like I could just float away,” she'd said, and it hadn't sounded like a childish fantasy at all. It sounded like terror and shadows in the night, like the monster everyone thought they were.

“I wish you were here, Laura. I wish I could tell you how sorry I am.” He spoke quietly even though the woods around him were deserted, not even so much as a stray dog or cat rustling the undergrowth for miles. He didn't have a headstone or a grave – after the police had taken custody of her body they would only release it to a funeral home. He'd let them burn her because he couldn't stand the thought of her made up to look like some doll, like pretending at being human, even in death. In ashes, at least, she would be with the rest of their family, racing the wind in some kind of afterlife.

He didn't know if he believed the old stories of thick forests and endless plains, of high grass and huge herds of animals to hunt. They were supposed to be wolves, in the end. He had no idea if that was better or worse than being human.

Stiles would probably have an opinion on it. He had an opinion on everything. When Derek had spoken to him earlier, he'd been panicked and subdued at the same time, breathing like he'd run a race and lost, deep, gulping breaths that could almost be sobs. Derek flicked open his phone but didn't call. Stiles was supposed to research and try out meditation techniques, calling him would probably be counterproductive. Still, Derek felt wretched with the weight of responsibility, both for his part in the fight and for letting Stiles take the risk in the first place.

He felt anger, too, and a deep-seated, despicable jealousy. Stiles hadn't wanted to be a werewolf, but if it had to happen, it should have been Derek who gave him the bite. Deep down and hidden from view, Derek had wanted it. Scott and Lydia were never really his, could never be unless he made them truly hunt and despite what the Argents might think of him, there were lines Derek wouldn't cross. The ritual murder was an old, cruel way to buy loyalty, to sever the ties that made the wolves human, but Derek didn't want that. He preferred the festering wound where the pack bonds should be. It was animal pain, clean and simple and easy to control.

The trade-off was a tentative friendship; it was teenagers piled into his living room, eating pizza and watching movies; it was laughter and the beginnings of a feeling that could one day be family. It was worth suppressing some of his baser impulses and he would teach Stiles to do the same.

+

Upside down, his bedroom looked like a battlefield on an alien planet. Stiles nearly choked on his laughter as he tumbled out of his latest attempt at a handstand. Having all his blood rush into his head didn't actually make him feel any more relaxed, but he had uncovered the hideout of several items he'd thought he'd lost years ago. And dust bunnies. There was a whole colony under his bed, several generations by his slightly distracted count.

He felt better after lunch with his dad and several texts from everyone, even Jackson. They were naturally worried and that, more than Derek's stupid idea about meditating, made him feel a lot less up shit creek without a paddle. The pack was his paddle. Heh.

“Good one, Mr. Hyperpuppy,” he said, attempting a ridiculous British accent. “Very good indeed. A real knee-slapper, if I may say so myself.”

His bedroom remained woefully silent. The walls had no opinion on his impressive impressions. A limited audience never stopped anyone from greatness. He didn't need the adulation of his many loving fans. Some fans, though, that would be nice. He jumped up, cracked his knuckles and turned on his laptop. Scott wasn't online and Lydia was away from keyboard, which probably meant that she was watching TED talks again. She hated to be interrupted during her edutainment.

The ping of a conversation request nearly made him fall out of his chair. “Oh, Derek, that's so precious,” he said as he saw the handle. _Sourwolf88,_ of all things. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through his chest and he grinned into the camera.

  
“I knew you liked it, I knew it! You pretend to be grumpy and mysterious all the time, but deep down, you're just as much of a puppy as the rest of them.” He paused. “Of us, the rest of _us_.”

Derek made a face. It was his scary constipated face. All of his faces were that face. “Stiles, shut up.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I bet you say that to all the boys.” Derek hunched further into himself, almost as if he was trying to make himself invisible. He looked around like he expected a hunter to jump out at him. Stiles cocked his head. “Wait, that's not your house. Derek, are you-”

“Don't-”

“You're in a library! Oh my god, you are literally the creepy guy in the library. Please tell me you're not looking at porn.”

Derek growled. “Stiles.” Amazing how someone could stuff that much disapproval into a single sound.

“Right, sorry, I'll shut up now.”

“That will be the day,” Derek murmured, something like a tiny puppy smile creeping onto his face. There was silence between them for maybe twenty seconds. Okay, fifteen. More than ten. Then Stiles couldn't help himself.

“So meditation isn't really my thing, like, at all.” He only spoke the truth. He felt about as relaxed as Hammy the squirrel. “Maybe I could try to exhaust myself, run laps around the house, that kind of thing.”

Derek frowned, a distant expression taking over his face. “You should establish a territory.”

 

Stiles blinked. More silence stretched out like a lazy lion, but Derek didn't elaborate. “Uh, am I supposed to pee on some trees?”

Covering his face with one hand, Derek looked like maybe he wanted to throw Stiles into walls again. It had been a while, that's all Stiles had to say about the subject. Not that he missed it or anything. Still, Derek was noticeably quiet on the actual subject of peeing on trees.

“Dude, this whole werewolf mystique thing is just a ruse, isn't it? At first it's all _phenomenal wolfy powers_ and then you find out about the living space and the water sports.”

“You will have to shift,” Derek said instead of an answer. “Tonight. The woods closest to your house. Walk until you can't smell anything that reminds you of civilization.”

Stiles laughed. “Okay, so no claiming the Burger King for my wolfy palate? That's cruel. What am I going to do with a piece of forest in the middle of nowhere? Every wolf needs a kingdom!”

Derek growled. “It's not what you do with it, it is what you won't do. Alphas are very territorial, do you understand? If the wolf inside you thinks it's threatened every time you get mail delivered, there is no way this can work.”

Considering that he really liked their mail-person and wouldn't want to be the bad dog in the neighborhood, Stiles sighed. “All right, I get it. Becoming a hermit makes it easier not to eat people. I see you teach by example.”

“I will follow you from a distance,” Derek said, rubbing his temple just like Stiles' dad did sometimes. “But it will be dangerous. Take your tranquilizer. Take off your clothes and stash it all under a tree or near a rock you're likely to find again.”

“Oh, you just want to get me naked, I see how it is.” The words tumbled out of his mouth without checking with his brain first. It would have been okay if only Derek had a sense of humor. “What?” He crossed his arms defensively, his skin was on fire but he kept his chin up.

“I-” Derek looked to the side and Stiles hated it because he couldn't see whatever was going on in those stupid hazel eyes. “That's not-”

“No, come on, I was just making a joke, all right? Because friends can do that. They can say really stupid things and then pretend it never happened.”  
  


Derek nodded once, all curt and professional, like they weren't suddenly talking about Stiles' embarrassing psyche. And just like that they weren't anymore. “About tonight.”

“Yes, I got it. Secret naked moon ritual in the woods. Pee on the scenery. Find inner peace.” Well, two out of three probably wasn't bad. “So, that's all then?”

That face again, and this time Stiles could read some reluctance in it. Derek looked nervous about something. “It is.” That was as good as a goodbye, without actually saying it. Stiles started to grin and tried to keep it contained.

“We're done with werewolf business until tonight?” He really shouldn't needle Derek but he didn't feel like going back to meditating and sunset was a long way away.

“We are.”

“Good.” Derek smiled a little and that decided him. Derek had been smiling a lot more these days, despite his own best efforts probably, and Stiles liked it. There was something young about Derek's smile. “Uh, how do you feel about video games?”

+

 

“I'd take him on, you know I would. There is nothing left for me but to help out a few pups in need. But Derek, you must know that it is not that easy.”

Helen sounded old and tired. She'd had a pack once, before hunters had taken everything from her. It was always the same story. Hunters. They invoked their code when it was convenient, but too many of them were fueled by hate. Chris Argent was the exception.

“I want him to be safe,” Derek said into his phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure of his grip. Stiles going to Florida and mating with a near stranger was preferable to what would happen if Stiles ever hurt someone he loved. It didn't mean Derek had to like it. The wolf part of him was confused – Stiles had been pack and now he wasn't, but the human part had no doubts. Stiles was theirs and they would do what had to be done to protect him.

Something rustled on Helen's side, paper maybe. “There are hunters here,” she said and her voice hardened. “They watch me, Derek. I know the situation in Beacon Hills is fucked up, but please believe me when I say that you are lucky.” Derek wanted to interject, but Helen growled at him. “Yes, even with what happened to your family. A rogue alpha like your uncle, dead people all over the place and anyone other than Chris Argent would have turned it into a blood bath. Your little pack is only alive because no one has told the old man yet. You and I both know that Kate Argent is the rule rather than the exception.”

Derek swallowed through the memory of smoke and tears. “How do you-”

Helen sighed. “Wolves are a social breed, Derek. I knew your grandfather when we were both much younger. We used to have contact with packs all over the continent. Now we are so afraid of the hunters and our own shadows that we can't even recognize each other. All the old alphas are dying away and the young ones haven't been taught the right lessons. As for Kate, I do know how to read between the lines of a newspaper article, pup.”

He would never admit it, but the frustration building in his chest made him whimper like a mewling kitten. “If we can't...” He couldn't finish the sentence.

“You'll find a way.”

There wasn't anything more to say and she left him with the promise to do what was necessary if it came to that. He hoped it never would.

He thought about Laura who would have known Helen, or at least _of_ her. “This is a lot harder than I thought it would be,” he said. Talking to his dead sister was probably a sign of his impending mental breakdown, but it made him feel better. “You always made it look easy somehow.” Obviously she didn't answer, but the silence of the house still pressed down on him with unusual weight.

He left his house and the forest to wait for Stiles just far enough away – and downwind – from the boy's house that he wouldn't be noticed.

 

+

 

Dad was gone for the night and the house was quieter than usual. Stiles didn't even need lights to get around; his new night vision bathed everything in a soft blue, washing out the edges of the world. He was tense, waiting for the right time, and something under his skin seemed to vibrate and buzz. He prowled the house, thought of a tiger in a cage and laughed, because hell, tigers and wolves probably didn't mix all that well.

He felt the tingling in his hands first, the lurch in his stomach after and knew that the moon had finally popped over the horizon. It seemed silly that they would be beholden to it at all and that its visibility made any difference – it was, essentially, a really big piece of rock. (Too big, maybe, and powerful enough to draw the ocean.)

The forest was all around Beacon Hills, reaching even into the heart of their small town. It was a living, breathing entity with a healthy population of large and small animals, but surprisingly few predators. The presence of a werewolf pack made a fairly big impact that left scientists around these parts scratching their heads.

He wandered aimlessly for a bit, trying to leave himself open to the smells of civilization like that was a thing you could actually smell. It seemed a little silly to expect a sudden revelation of nature's nature-ness but he didn't have anything else to go on. He tried not to think about the werewolf thing. It was this enormous mess balled up tight in his chest and when he tried to poke at it he couldn't quite breathe. In his room he had managed to distract himself with cat videos and playing _Star Wars_ but out here all he had was the echo of his own thoughts. Could he handle being a powerful creature of people's nightmares? Would he be able to control himself at all times to keep his friends safe? The tranquilizer gun in his backpack said maybe he didn't have to, at least not every hour of every day, and that there were people who'd willingly share the burden with him.

But then he thought about Laura's eyes, startling even in her dead face. Peter had to have loved her at some point, had to have recognized the bond of blood between them, and he'd murdered her anyway. He'd torn her apart to make sure that she would die and he could gain her power. The look on her face haunted Stiles, now more than ever. She'd been betrayed by someone she loved.

Derek was optimistic about the whole control situation because Derek breathed control, he ate it for breakfast and dreamed of it at night. Stiles though, he didn't have that kind of grip on himself, he could barely concentrate long enough to write a five page essay or finish a test. So how was he supposed to control this?

Flickering between self-pity and anxiety, his thoughts occupied him so much that he barely noticed the terrain around him. He followed a shallow ravine, letting the murmur of the water soothe him on an unconscious level. Jumping a ditch, nearly stumbling over rotten branches, he began to jog and then he ran. It felt good, the burn of sudden activity in his limbs, and he breathed easy and deep.

The right place appeared before him like a cialis pop-up on a porn site. There were a few trees in the clearing, but mostly a small rock formation dominated the space. It was distinct enough to stumble across it again, especially with his improved senses. He'd brought some of the leftover anise to douse his backpack just in case.

“Let's do this, I guess.”

He tugged off his shirt and wondered if he should be able to notice Derek, if Derek was close enough to see. He felt himself blush and rolled his eyes. Derek wouldn't care about his scrawny naked chest, that wolf probably had insane standards of beauty just from looking in a mirror. Not that it mattered anyway, plenty of people had seen him naked in the locker room and he'd never felt self-conscious. Much anyway.

Piling his clothes next to his backpack, he placed the gun on top. If he really needed it at some point he probably wouldn't be in a state to deal with clasps or zippers. He scattered a few aniseed pods on the whole mess and couldn't stop himself from licking his fingers. These things didn't taste like much but the smell made him dizzy-happy in the best way possible.

The moon was still huge and orange, low over the horizon. It wasn't anywhere near full yet, but the strange pull was undeniable. Just looking at it made his skin crawl and his thoughts scatter. There was a primal quality to the light and every scent seemed heightened. The forest was oddly silent, holding its breath for the main event.

He stood waiting for a few moments and then he began to fidget, unsure whether he was supposed to do anything special or just let the wolf come out or what. Nothing happened and Stiles started to think of this whole thing as wasted time. He wasn't some magical girl in a school uniform punishing people in the name of the moon. He didn't have anything like a focus or a magical pen with sparkles. Derek probably didn't need anything, not even anger. Stiles thought about Derek in a mini-skirt for all of two seconds and then shook his head. Focus, Stiles.

The shift, when it came, was not as painful as he'd expected. Scott was a total liar. Stiles' bones shifted and the sensation was unnerving, but more pressure than pain. His hair grew with a shiver-itch that made him tremble and gave him a strong desire to rub his entire body against the roughest tree bark he could find. Every scent was a symphony and the light of the moon flooded the forest in brightness, enhancing some colors and muting others. It looked magnificent, a fairy tale landscape right out of one of the more drug-induced Disney movies. Fantasia: Beacon Hills.

Stiles ran, long, loping strides that ate up the distance, the moon shining like a gold crescent necklace above a movie star's cleavage. He felt a shudder run through his body as he closed in on Hale territory – the whole town was the protectorate of the pack, but the forest around the burned-out house was different. It was heady with a scent that conjured images of Derek, of his snarl and his smiles, spiced with the sense of Scott and Lydia and Jackson. Stiles could even recognize Danny and Allison, a hint of their essence.

A rat emerged from the undergrowth as he stood unsure at the border of land that used to be his, at least in some small part. He had been pack, the wolf knew it, and both parts of him mourned what had been lost. He would never be a part of this again – his scent, the faint traces that still lingered, would disappear completely in a few days' time. Even if he did learn to control himself properly, this place would never be home again and that more than anything broke his heart.

He heard the howl before he realized that it was his own grief giving itself form.

After that he let the wolf take him where it needed to go. He dug his claws into the earth, fighting against a sense of drifting away, a feeling of slowly disconnecting from everything he loved. Unused to the strain of a long run, the skin of his paws cracked, the pain a vivid reminder of his humanity. This body wasn't his, it was both a curse and appropriation. He didn't belong and he had never felt this lonely.

Howls scratched his throat raw but there was no one to answer him. There was no pack, no family. He was alone.

There was only the wolf. And the wolf yearned to hunt.

+

The boy looked ridiculous. That was Derek's first thought. The transformation had turned Stiles into a long-limbed, slender creature as tall as a deer, with a narrow, sharp face and an upturned nose. His ears were large and reminded Derek of nothing more than a fox, an illusion helped along by the rust-colored coat. Everything taken by itself was over the top and ill-fitting, just like the human Stiles, but together it worked somehow, blended into a distinct, coltish aesthetic.

He followed closely, staying hidden only because he had learned to read the wind as a child, only because Stiles was so very new at this and Derek knew these woods better than anything else in his life. Derek was too close by half and didn't know why. There were safer distances, easier ways to go about this. All of it. But somehow Stiles inspired him to take stupid, unnecessary risks because maybe at the end of it was a worthy goal. Something that wasn't safe, but better for it.

Stiles as a wolf was as capricious as his human self, bouncing through the forest with a lot of energy and no direction. The closer they drew to Derek's childhood home, however, the slower and more cautious Stiles became. His soft footfalls drew to a halt just inches away from land that Derek knew as _his_ , as thoroughly as he owned his own skin.

A small whimper was the first sign of trouble. Stiles' ears flattened against his skull and his back arched, tail tucked close to his body. Something small scurried away, a rodent with some sense of self-preservation perhaps, and for a moment Derek entertained the thought that Stiles was simply afraid of mice. It would be the kind of funny story that got trotted out every so often over family dinner, along with the disastrous tale of Derek's first hunt. Except. There was no one left who remembered the latter and the jury was still out on whether the pack could even be in the same room with Stiles without triggering his instinct to kill.

When Stiles howled it was the same sound as before, pain and fear and grief distilled in a dissonant little melody that scratched over every scar Derek hid inside, rubbing them raw. This time it was magnified, more potent, and Derek crouched low, pressed himself to the ground to keep from answering that hollow call. If they fought, Stiles would not stop until he could no longer stand, would throw himself at Derek's teeth and claws until blood and bone was all that was left. If by some miracle Stiles were receptive to a different instinct, his life would be over just as thoroughly. The mating bond between two alphas was the strongest, most primal magic their kind still possessed, and even Laura had spoken of it with a certain reverence.

Silence, then, and Stiles darted away, no joy in his movements. He looked hunted, as if all the ghosts of the forest had taken up his scent, snapping at his heels. Derek followed, no longer concerned with stealth. Stiles was faster, lithe and sleek, long legs barely touching the ground and Derek felt real fear settle in his stomach. In his current state, Stiles was more dangerous than Peter had ever been and if something happened they would all pay for it.

Stiles disturbed a solitary deer and followed the trail through the undergrowth, purposeful now, but no less feral. Derek thought wildly that no one was home, that Stiles was a high speed train without a driver. The wolf had the reins completely and if one mangled deer was the price for the night's outing they would get away cheap. Of course, just the thought was enough to jinx them, because Derek was his own bad luck omen. Stiles came to a stop, tumbling over his own feet in a move that would have made Derek laugh in any other situation. The foxy ears perked up and Stiles head tilted as his entire body stilled, tension in every cord of muscle.

Derek couldn't hear whatever it was that had caught Stiles' attention, but they were too close to the town, too close to the roads that ran through the forest like human brands of ownership for him to be comfortable. He followed on instinct, ran harder than he had in a long time, maybe since his escape to New York. Their chase cut straight through the buffer that Derek had negotiated with Chris Argent and they broke out of the forest a few yards away from the hunter training grounds. The lights and the noise dazed Stiles for a few crucial moments and Derek managed to catch him in the side in mid jump, preventing the mauling of one of the armed hunters securing the perimeter. Derek was too aware of the guns on them to worry about being gentle and he bit Stiles hard in the shoulder, flesh ripping between his teeth. He heard the shot and the yelp and suddenly Stiles was gone, running again.

Derek shifted into his human skin and raised his hands, his body blocking the way back into the forest where he could still hear Stiles thrashing about. “Don't come after us,” he said, looking at the pale faces around him. They had been taken by surprise and their fear had made them dangerous. Their weapons were pointed right at Derek's heart. “No human blood has been spilled and it won't be if you leave me to deal with him alone.”

One of the younger ones, a kid not much older than Stiles himself, lowered his rifle a fraction and nodded at the forest. “You got another alpha problem? Some jogger turns up dead, you know it's your head on the line.”

Derek bit his cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Stiles had had a terrible influence on his impulse control when it came to sarcasm. It was almost like being a smart-ass was contagious. “I know, but this situation. It's different. I'll take care of it. Tell Argent there is no need to get himself and his little army involved.”

With that, he shifted again and turned his back to the trigger-happy assholes with assault rifles. The trail Stiles left was easier to follow now, alight with the scent of blood. He was led back to the clearing Stiles had picked as his base, the scent of anise nearly enough to cover the mix of blood and vomit. Stiles had shifted back to human, his back braced against the rock. He was bleeding from his shoulder, but his hands were pressing down on the wound in his stomach.

Derek edged closer, unsure how far he could go before Stiles would notice him. The pain was a distraction, maybe enough for Derek to reach the backpack. Even now Stiles was still a danger and with every breath he would become stronger. Except that the bleeding from his shoulder should have stopped almost immediately, the wound in his side not long behind. Something was wrong. It could have been a wolfsbane bullet, although it made little sense for the hunters to be practicing with them. Derek hesitated.

“Stiles,” he said, worried enough to shift into the more familiar form. “What's going on?”

Stiles roared, flickering between wolf and human for a moment, a mad glint in his eyes. “No offense, Derek, but I really want to kill you right now.” Stiles laughed, high pitched and hysterically unsteady. “Maybe you should have just let them take me out. Would have saved you a lot of trouble.” He coughed and there was blood on his lips. Derek frowned. This shouldn't be happening.

“What are you-” he began, and then it hit him, what Stiles was trying to do. It chilled him enough that he yearned to be the wolf again, to have that extra layer of protection. “Stiles, you have to let it go. You have to let your body heal itself.”

Stiles shook his head. “Oh no, no. I'm not doing this anymore. I could have killed that guy tonight and you know it. It ends here.”

Derek ran a hand through his hair. He was too far away from Stiles to do any good, he couldn't touch to reassure them both, for so many reasons. “It doesn't work like that,” Derek said. “You will pass out at some point, the pain will be too much, and then it will happen anyway.” His own voice was far from steady. Few wolves could control themselves beyond their own consciousness and Stiles probably wasn't one of them. He hoped.

“You say that like you think you believe it.” The small smile on Stiles' face was cold as ice.

Derek did the only thing that he could think of to wipe that expression off Stiles' face. He lunged for the gun and shot a tranquilizer dart at Stiles' heaving chest. The betrayed look in the boy's eyes and the snarl on his lips were only marginally better, but at least they didn't remind Derek of Laura's dead, hollow eyes.

+

There were moments when the natural inclination to snark at the universe came out even in someone as used to normal human behavior as Sheriff Stilinski. He'd like to say it was his late wife's bad influence, but the truth was much more complex. Their courtship had been two parts witty banter, one part bad puns and their son had never had a chance to be anyone other than sarcasm guy – genetically, he came from two long lines of people who didn't know serious if it bit them in the ass.

“Derek, just once I'd like for us to meet without the victim of a violent crime between us.”

Derek had Stiles in his arms, curled up against him like a sleeping child, but the blood made any illusion of peacefulness a vicious lie. But instead of panic there was a weary resignation written all over the kid and the Sheriff had done his own research. He wasn't worried. “Sir, I can explain.”

He nodded. “I'm sure you can. Dump him on the couch, will you? I want to talk to you.”

For a big bad wolf, Derek looked brutally young, blood streaked on his face and shirt. Stiles seemed to be wrapped in his leather jacket and the Sheriff felt the surge of protectiveness that wouldn't come at the sight of bullet wounds. Stiles' new and awesome werewolf powers would let him heal anything short of dismemberment, but teenage romance was the stuff that hurt. Especially if there was a guy like Derek involved.

Derek looked suitably cowed, which was good. “Sit down and stop worrying about me for a second. I'm not going to shoot you.”

“I wasn't-”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you were. It's okay. I'll turn off the bad cop persona unless you give me reason to get angry.”

Derek sat down at the table where a pile of files and research had long since usurped the space generally reserved for eating. When he and Stiles did eat together, it usually involved pigging out in front of the TV. Theirs was a household still waiting for a woman to come home. It wouldn't change until Stiles got his own place, his own life, if at all.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Derek said, looking downward as if the truth of the universe was to be found in the pattern of the linoleum floor. “I should have been more careful.”

“No. Derek, if I thought for one moment that you had done anything to put my son in danger against his will, I would have put a few nice holes in you and hid the body where no one would ever find it. Do you understand me?” He waited for Derek to meet his eyes and nod. “Look, Stiles has always been difficult, even before his mother died. I am the last person who has any leg to stand on when it comes to protecting Stiles from his own impulsiveness. He can't be locked up in an ivory tower just because he might get hurt – and if we tried, he'd just get in trouble behind our backs.”

Derek huffed. “That sounds like him.”

“What I'm saying is that it won't be easy to help him if he's got his mind made up about something and you need to know that he can be stubborn if he thinks he's right.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and Derek's face darkened as he processed the words. It was hard putting the feeling of dread into words, the knowledge that Stiles wasn't as fine as he wanted everyone else to believe. It was just a feeling, a sense that a father could get, that didn't really translate into instructions. Or sentences.

“He is handling this as well as could be expected,” Derek said, frowning and a little bit more wolfish than the Sheriff thought any person should look without that whole shift he'd read about. “To be honest, I don't have a manual for this sort of thing. Laura was... she would have been much better at dealing with all this.”

The Sheriff sighed. Derek had never been cleared of his sister's murder properly, just sort of ruled out as a suspect and then accused of enough other crimes to render her death insignificant. “I'm sorry,” he said, meaning so much more. Derek had cultivated an untouchable quality, the attitude of a petty thug, but considering his history, he'd turned out all right. Most importantly he cared about Stiles and the rest of those idiot teenagers. That was enough to get him on the Sheriff's good side.

“I can't promise you that Stiles will be fine,” Derek said. Something had changed in his face, a distance that was more than just space.

The Sheriff sighed and fought the urge to pour them both a shot of the single malt. He didn't have the luxury of losing himself in his head right now. “No one can. Life isn't like that. But I know you'll try. If there's anything you need me to do, just let me know. There is nothing I wouldn't do for that kid.”

Derek laughed. It made sense now, that his boy would seek out the company of this damaged creature. A smile like that could light up an entire city, more precious for its rarity. “I'll keep that in mind, sir.”

+

When Derek finally made his way back to the woods, someone was waiting for him at his house. The car was a black, hulking monster of the sort the hunters preferred for both strength and lack of character. He circled around the house and approached from downwind, just in case. Catching the familiar scent of Chris Argent on the porch, he cursed under his breath. It had been too much to hope that the news of their little problem could stay under wraps for another night, but disappointment still hit him right in the stomach. He was rapidly losing control of the entire situation.

Argent was waiting in the room where Peter had finally ended Kate, his gaze settled where her body had been. Derek didn't want to think of Kate as someone's sister or aunt, he didn't want to feel sorry for someone who had taken so much from him simply because crazy killer bitch had only been one facet of her personality. But he couldn't help sympathizing with the slump of Argent's shoulders, the hollow that family left no matter how bad they'd been in the end.

“What do you want?” Derek kept his voice neutral as much as he could. In this room, with so much bad blood between them, it wasn't all that much.

Argent didn't turn around, didn't even flinch. “That's a more difficult question to answer than you might think.” He laughed, a dry sound like a cough. “In any case, it's none of your business. I'm not here for me, look at it more as something of a courtesy. My boys tell me there is a new alpha in town, feral and most likely dangerous. They also tell me that you seem to be harboring it. Why would you do such a thing, Derek? I have to ask myself why you would put your pack at risk. It's not like you.”

Derek thought of Stiles in the forest, willing to give up everything for everyone else's convenience. “It's complicated,” he said, unwilling to give Argent anything more than he had to. “He's young. We're taking care of him.”

Argent turned to face Derek, a calculating look in his eyes. “You wouldn't just do this for any random kid coming through. Which one is it, then? It is one of yours or you wouldn't put yourself out there like this.”

Derek crossed his arms. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does when he starts killing. You know as well as I do that infected alphas almost never make it beyond their first moon. They don't have the necessary control and there isn't enough time to teach them.”

“We're looking into other options.”

Argent laughed again, shaking his head. “There are only two ways to control an alpha like that, Derek, and you don't strike me like the type for shotgun marriage. Put a bullet in his brain before it's too late.”

Derek gritted his teeth, uncomfortably aware of the wolf under his skin. “There is someone who'd take him, if it comes to that.”

“You've got an unattached alpha up your sleeve? Impressive, but irrelevant. As soon as the kid crosses the town limits he's a target for every hunter in the country and most of them will shoot first. You won't be able to protect him.”

That was just about enough. Derek turned and nodded at the door. “Thanks for letting me know,” he said, cold and more controlled than he felt. “If that's all? It's been a long night.”

Argent took the hint and walked out, stopping at the door. “You may not believe it, but I'm not your enemy, Derek. There is no way this can end well.” Argent disappeared without waiting for an answer, and Derek only began to breathe again when he heard the car pull away.

“Fuck,” he said. It echoed in the empty house like an accusation.

+

Stiles was running out of ways to be bored and lonely four days after the incident. He'd skyped with everyone and called Scott at 3 a.m. to talk about lacrosse, he'd gotten them all to join an IRC chat room he'd called _#packmyass_ and then they had to password that shit when random people came in looking for gay hookups. Derek had not been amused, but for a few hours Stiles had felt normal. He'd continued his meditation and sucked at it and practiced shifting in the woods between his house and Derek's. Lydia had refused to give him his homework, making him do random AP stuff instead and he would never admit it to anyone but it worked for him in ways regular schooling never had.

And still, at the end of a long night, Stiles was painfully aware of his exile. He wanted to tease Jackson into trying to punch him, causing a scene that would get Derek's hackles up and everyone else laughing. He missed them. He missed watching Scott and Allison make out and gesturing his disgust to the rest of the pack. He missed getting shoved against vertical surfaces by their illustrious leader. He missed late nights discussing Finstock's insanity over cold pizza.

On the fifth day, Derek called him. “Come to the basement. There's unfinished business.” The jerk didn't even wait for an answer, just hung up on him. Stiles was completely whipped when it came to Derek, but it was only polite to pretend that he had a choice.

The basement was still as creepy as ever. Danny was waiting for him, armed with a tazer and a tranq gun. Stiles rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. He had a feeling this whole thing was another of Derek's plans and so far at least he didn't feel like killing Danny. Or fucking him any more than usual, which apparently was a concern if his mad google skills had not steered him wrong.

“Derek wants you to talk to our friends.” Danny said the word friends like referring to something on the sole of his shoe. “I'll be right there if you start to feel weird.”

Stiles wondered when getting shot by a tranquilizer had become a good thing in his messed up mind. It wasn't a pleasant experience going in and the hangover was worse than a mallet to the head, but there was security in it. He wandered down the damp little corridor and didn't feel any weirder than he would in any creepy, burned out shell of a building where people had died and been tortured. Just your regular haunted house skin crawl.

When he opened the door, everything changed. The scent hit him like a freight train, which technically wasn't any worse than being hit by a passenger train, but whatever. He'd forgotten about the wolves. They looked even more pathetic having stewed for a few days in their own filth. He felt sorry for them. He'd have to talk to Derek about wrongful imprisonment and human decency.

He also wanted to rip them to shreds. It didn't feel entirely like his own mind, his own voice, but the intensity of the anger and cruel, awful desire to hurt knocked the breath from his lungs. “Danny,” he choked out, “I'm not... feeling. Well.” His voice sounded rough, distorted, and he could feel the change as the wolf burst out of his skin.

He lunged at the bars of the cage, snarling and half-blind with rage. Kill, he wanted to kill. Rip them open and bathe in their blood. They should not have come. They needed to be taught a lesson. He clawed at them through the bars and tried to press himself through to steel to get at them. Trespassers. They could not be allowed to live.

“Well, at least that answers one of our questions.” Danny's quiet voice was barely enough to penetrate the fog in his brain, but when it did Stiles turned and found new prey. Danny smelled like nothing other than potential. He could be pack and Stiles hesitated between the instinct to kill and to procreate – it was enough for Danny to shoot him right in the face.

+

“We could turn them over to Allison's parents,” Scott said. The camera only picked up their shoulders and faces, but Stiles knew they were holding hands. Allison's eyes were wet with unshed tears, mostly because he'd nearly mauled them both when he'd woken up in Derek's house. He wasn't safe around them and they all knew what it meant.

“Look,” Stiles said, not looking at his webcam. “I'd rather we let them go. They have no pack, there is no reason for them to stay here and I can't- they're stupid thugs, but they shouldn't be executed.”

It wasn't mercy, Stiles knew that much. There were hunters all over the country just waiting for an easy kill. Derek would be within his rights as an alpha to flay them alive, werewolf-ly speaking, but Stiles had grown up in a cop's home and he knew what it could do to people. Taking a life changed someone, even when it was in self-defense, and doing so in cold blood left some pretty deep marks. That was what set them apart from Kate Argent. They weren't going to be that kind of monster, not if he still had a say in it.

The others looked subdued in their little frames. Video conferencing was no substitute for pack meetings but it would have to do for now. Maybe forever, if they couldn't get his rage blackouts under control. He felt like the Hulk. To his surprise, Derek nodded after a moment and said, “I agree. We'll let them take their chances somewhere else. They aren't our problem.”

Stiles flinched. “Yeah, they're not. I am.”

No one rushed to reassure him, which probably meant they'd all given up on any kind of miracle days ago. Except for Derek, who looked furious. “You're not a problem that needs to be solved, Stiles.”

Lydia huffed. “Your faith in your friends is really gratifying, Stilinski. I'm so glad we had this talk.”

Even Scott looked traitorously mulish, as if Stiles had insulted his mother. It didn't matter though. Stiles would have killed the other wolves and he would have turned Danny if they hadn't already planned for his inevitable loss of control. “I know you think we can pull a rabbit out of our collective asses before the next full moon,” Stiles said, his voice more flat than usual. “But I've had nothing but the internet for company the last three days and I know where this is going. Unless you know something I don't, someone is going to have to take me out. I can't risk hurting any of you, or my dad. Or any idiot walking down the street at night.”

“Stiles-” Scott sounded pained, but Stiles wasn't having it.

“I can't live like this! Don't you understand that?”

They were all silent and for a moment Stiles thought he'd won. It felt hollow, the shell of an egg after all the good stuff had leaked out. He could paint it bright colors, but it was still empty. Except, Lydia was gesturing exaggeratedly at her cam and Derek shook his head and growled.

“Tell him or I will,” she hissed.

“Tell me what?”

Derek had that face again, the one that made him look both scary and unbelievably immature, like a two-year old with a machine gun. “There may be another way,” Derek said, each word a chore. “But it's not the easy way out. You won't like it.”

Stiles stared, blinked, stared some more. “Uh, dude, it's either that or my untimely demise. I'd say I'll be willing to take that chance sight unseen, whatever it is.”

Derek hesitated, and when he did talk his eyes were fixed somewhere off-camera. “An alpha like you can be calmed considerably by the presence of its mate.”

Stiles nodded. “Great, that's great. So I just go and get laid during the full moon? That's not so bad. I mean, it's not like I really... uh, never mind. So, what's the problem?”

Derek huffed a frustrated sigh. “That's not how it works.”

“How does it work then? Freaky demonic ritual by moonlight? Because I can do that. I'm not above a little naked chanting to save my own life.”

Lydia was the one who laughed, but Scott blurted out the truth. “You have to get werewolf-married. To another alpha.”

A long, awkward silence followed that statement. Stiles frowned at his keyboard like the jumble of letters would make more sense than what he'd just heard. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Derek growled. “There is nothing funny about this.”

“It's a little funny,” Jackson piped up. The cyber space meeting was giving him a false sense of security, and Stiles couldn't wait to watch Derek tear him a new one.

“It's your life,” Derek said, soft and quiet, like a man trying to calm a wild animal. Hah. “You're going to have to choose what we should do. The mating bond is for life and it can't really be explained. It means you won't ever have another relationship unless your partner dies.”

Stiles swallowed, vertigo settling in his stomach like he was riding a never-ending roller-coaster. “That's all well and good, but where do we even get another alpha?”

Everyone looked away in unison, Scott coughed into his hand and Lydia shook her head like she did when their physics teacher messed up his math sometimes. Stiles felt as if he was missing a vital part of this conversation. Derek sighed. “Remember Helen?”

Stiles laughed. “Little old lady with the teeth? Who could forget?” His amusement slowly drained from him as he realized. “Oh. You mean. Really? She'd do that?”

Derek nodded, his face serious and paler than usual. “Unfortunately, there are risks. Hunters. And she's in Florida, can't take the cold winters.”

Stiles cocked his head. “Florida. But on the plus side, she'd be dead soon? Is that why we're even talking about this? Because I gotta tell you, I'm not really seeing the good side here.” He was freaking out a little inside his head, but at least he managed to stay reasonably calm on the outside. For him, anyway. He couldn't imagine leaving his friends, his dad. And frankly, he couldn't really see himself going through with it when it came to Helen. She was a lovely woman, but that didn't really change the fact that she was an octogenarian.

Allison broke him out of his derailing thought pattern. “Well, there is another option.” She trailed off and Stiles looked at the rest of his ex-pack, each of them avoiding his gaze. Derek was rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“What?”

“Me,” Derek finally said.

More silence and it took a while for Stiles to parse that syllable, but when he got it his face flushed with unwelcome heat. “You?” he squeaked. He wasn't proud of the way his voice broke, but the thought was at once ridiculous and incredibly hot. He'd be a fool to deny Derek's relative attractiveness, but there were other factors that had never really made it an option, the most pressing of them being that Derek didn't even particularly like him. “But you don't even like me!”

Derek growled. “You think I'd let you die?”

“And you're a guy. Does that even work?”

“There were stories-”

Stiles coughed. “Stories? So we don't know. I could just end up trying to claw your face off anyway. That's not very encouraging.”

“I think it's worth a try,” Lydia said, interrupting his internal meltdown. “We can always shoot you in the head later if it doesn't work.”

“Right,” Stiles said, feeling cornered and strangely hopeful. He really didn't want to die. This was crazy, but it was the kind of crazy that he'd gotten used to since Scott was bitten. It was the kind of crazy that might just work. “So, uh, what do we do? Are we just going to... do it? And then I can hang out with you guys again without trying to kill you?”

“There's no ceremony,” Derek said. “We shift and we just... let nature take its course.” The camera on Derek's new laptop was shitty and had washed out colors, but he could swear Derek was blushing.

“That's, uhm...”

“We might not even have to consummate the bond,” Derek said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. “There have been cases of longer courtships, especially with someone so young. It doesn't have to be forever.”

Great, that was possibly the least enthusiastic come on of all time. Seriously, Stiles felt vaguely offended on his own behalf; he was a total catch. “So my choices are a bullet to the brain, fucking someone's grandma, or pretending to be in love with you? Can I think about it?” The words came out harsher and less funny than he intended, but really, Derek didn't look all that thrilled and okay, so it wasn't exactly how Stiles had thought his life would go, but then he hadn't planned on becoming a werewolf. This was at least partly Derek's fault. So he could just suck it up and stop being a dick about it. If the ruse worked, they wouldn't even have to be soul mates until one of them died.

“I don't like it any more than you do,” Derek pressed out between clenched teeth. His legendary control was fraying and that meant something, but Stiles was too tired to figure out what.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Okay. I just- I'll come back to the house and we can... oh my god, this is the worst.” He breathed a little harder, feeling the panic at the base of his skull, crawling up his spine. “I'll come over. And then we can-”

Growling again, Derek said, “Stiles. Breathe. We can talk about it when you get here.” And then the jerk actually cut off his feed, like there was nothing more to say. Maybe there wasn't, maybe the next thing out of his mouth would have been a “sorry, can't, you better take your chances with grandma” so it was better this way.

Scott cleared his throat and said something about getting up early, but Stiles only half-listened. They all logged off after that and Stiles felt at once relieved and abandoned. He looked at his window for a moment, lost in thought. Derek wasn't that bad. He actually was kind of awesome, if Stiles looked past the attitude problem and the disregard for social niceties to the gooey, puppy center. But this thing – he'd always held on to a faint hope that he and Lydia would one day get their shit together and get married and have a few babies. He'd be a great stay at home dad, he'd be fantastic. Even though he knew it was a pipe dream, knew it better now that he and Lydia were actually friends, doing this involved giving up that dream. He would have to rearrange not just his life, but his ambitions. Everything would be different, even if they somehow got around the lifetime restriction.

He wasn't too proud to admit that he was terrified and not just for his own future. Derek clearly didn't want anything more from him than saving the life of a... friend, if they were even that much. And Stiles knew without a doubt that if it came to a moment where Derek needed to be let go, Stiles would do whatever it took. That possibility scared him more than anything, except for the chance that Derek might feel the same. Two self-sacrificial idiots in a pod. It would be funny if it wasn't so awful.

+

Used to be, all wolves mated for life. Not all wolves got the chance, but those who did never strayed, never even wanted to. But time was a harsh mistress and their human side won out over old traditions, even old magic.

These days, only alphas still felt that bond, and only with each other. Not all alphas bonded with another wolf, fewer still with other alphas. The mating bond was the strongest, strangest magic the wolves possessed. A bonded pair of alphas was stronger, made a stronger pack, and no one questioned that it was special enough to revere, even when all other traditions had slowly been forgotten.

Derek knew that it was serious business, though he didn't know all the details. He just hoped they could figure them out in time.


	3. You Can't Carry It With You If You Want to Survive

Most people, even most wolves, thought the alpha bond was blatantly romantic, something so essentially good and beautiful that it had to end in sunshine and flowers and happily ever after. There were a few tragic stories about alphas, those whose love somehow conflicted with society and were killed for it. But only one story, an old story that had roots in several cultures, dared to question the initial assumption.

Laura was twelve when she came out of a lesson with a frown darkening her expression. She smiled at Derek when he asked and told him to mind his own business, but that night she sneaked into his room and pestered him until he let her tell the story after all. She sat with her arms tight around her bent knees, staring into the shadows.

There was a girl. It always started like that because the girl made all the difference. There was a girl who lived at the edge of the woods, taking care of her sick mother, herding sheep or goats or llamas and helping in town where she could. She was beautiful, of course, but that was not the reason people loved her. She had a goodness in her, a brilliant, pure optimism and love for life and the world that people were helpless against. It was impossible not to love her.

She went into the woods on an errand and got lost, as people in stories tended to do. Perhaps there had been a little bit of magic barring her way. Perhaps the wolf who ruled the forest had been watching her a long time or perhaps it was just terrible luck. But she did get lost and the wolf, as protector of the forest, had a duty to see her safely out the other side. The wolf and the girl fell in love. It was the kind of once in a lifetime forever love that could break all the rules, that was stronger than any magic. The story could have been one of those, one about overcoming adversity and two souls from different worlds finding each other.

But the wolf had a mate.

When the wolf realized what had happened, that his heart was thoroughly conquered and he could not be happy without the girl by his side, he fell into despair. The wolf, you see, the wolf loved his mate and would have done anything to make his mate happy. But he feared for the girl who had taken his heart, feared that his mate would kill her out of revenge and pain. The wolf loved his mate so much that he knew if someone had taken the other wolf from him, he would have done everything to get his mate back. Which was how he knew that the girl would not be safe, ever, that there was only one thing to do and he would have to be the one to do it.

In some versions, the story spoke of poison, or a knife in the back, but truly all that was needed was a challenge. The wolf called out his mate, a fight to the death.

They tore the forest apart. Their fight razed the fields and poisoned the water. They brought armies to bear and took no prisoners. In the end though, it came down to the two wolves, facing each other across a battlefield alone. They fought for days without rest, fought until neither could lunge anymore, just swiping with jagged claws at any exposed weakness, breath rattling in the unforgiving air of dawn.

When it ended, the wolf died with a plea on his lips, begging for the girl's life. His mate howled, some said in victory, some said in anguish.

In the village, the girl waited on her fate. She was no fighter, but she was not afraid. When the victor came she stood with her head held high, giving herself up so the wolf would have no reason to take another life for hers.

“I loved him,” she said, tears running freely down her cheeks. “And he loved me. Is that worth all this blood?”

And the wolf, the new protector of the forest, fell at her feet, kneeling in the dust. The wolf would not face her, but the words resonated like a clear bell ringing in a new day. “If he had asked... if he had asked, I would have let him go. My heart would have gladly traded its beat for his. My lungs would have burned to give him life. That is how much I loved him.”

As the true depth of this tragedy revealed itself to the girl, she, too, fell to her knees, and took the hand that could end her life, placed the sharp claws at her throat and closed her eyes. “Then will you take my life in reparation?”

The wolf's eyes snapped up and the claws tightening at her throat forced the girl to meet their gaze. In that moment they were kin. “I could no more kill what he sacrificed himself to save than I could change his heart in the first place. This I swear to you, for as long as we both live, you will have my protection.”

That was all Laura knew of the story and no matter how much Derek wished to learn more, they could never discover the fate of the girl and the wolf's mate.

Secretly, he'd always wondered if that kind of love wasn't better left to legend.

+

Derek stared at the cover of his new laptop, unsure when his life had turned so completely surreal. He'd been fairly normal once, for a werewolf. As a kid he'd known his place in the pack and he'd been a little geeky with an interest in RPGs and sci-fi, but he'd worked on muscle cars with his dad and gone hunting with grandpa. He'd even played baseball before lacrosse became a thing at his school. His mom used to call him a well-rounded little gentleman, ruffling his hair and pressing embarrassing kisses to his head.

He missed them so fiercely sometimes it was hard to breathe.

If Laura were here she'd tell him something uplifting that would make him laugh. She'd been good at that, turning dire situations into challenges that could be dealt with, making the world a less awful place with a well-timed deadpan joke. She would have loved Stiles.

“No offense, sis,” he said, feeling a little sheepish, “but I'm kind of glad you aren't around for this.” For some reason he didn't even want to contemplate Stiles mating with Laura. It was probably a sibling thing – protective even in his mind, even after she was out of his reach forever. He'd failed her when it counted, but the instinct would never go away.

He heard the jeep approaching before he was ready and had to clench his fists just so he could pretend his hands weren't shaking. Derek wasn't afraid, not like Stiles was, whose heart beat loud like drums of war. Neither of them was moving, for now, waiting with walls and doors between them. This wasn't exactly a matter of courage, no more than it was courage to walk toward one's execution. He still felt the whispering ghost of Kate's touch on his skin and in a way this was worse, because they both knew from the start that none of it was real.

Still, if he could run, he probably would.

In the end, it was Stiles who had the most to lose, who stumbled out of his car and up the stairs, the sound of his footfall hesitant on the dry wood. The hinges of the front door screeched in protest as Stiles barreled through, having gained some momentum between fear and determination.

Derek felt his fangs and claws protract in reaction to the presence of another alpha, a damnable reflex as natural as hair raising in a cold wind. It wasn't a good start for calming Stiles down enough to actually have a conversation. They needed to figure this out before-

“Derek,” Stiles growled, appearing in the negative space that used to be a door, eyes wild and glowing. “This entire house positively reeks like you.” He was forcing the words out in between gasps. “I hope you have a fucking plan because I am this close to doing something bad. With my teeth.”

Derek laughed. Only Stiles could be two minutes away from the worst moment of his life and still crack a joke. “I thought that was my line.”

Stiles whined and Derek winced in sympathy, imagining the kind of strength it took to fight the wolf on this. He'd grown up with it; he'd had years to get used to the primal pull of their shared nature. Stiles had only had a few days and the strongest instincts of their kind. It couldn't be easy.

Then Stiles pounced, transforming fully in midair, rage given form.

Derek didn't have time to think, only react. He rolled away and slid behind the worn bean bag chair Lydia kept dragging into the living area. It would do as a sacrifice. Stiles slashed at the thing and was momentarily distracted by the deluge of little plastic balls spilling at his feet. Derek sighed and fought down a grin. Stiles was still Stiles, in any form.

“If you keep this up,” Derek said, using the moment to duck out into the hall, “I might have to tranq you again.” The dull thud of Stiles slamming into the wall made Derek shiver with the memory of breaking bones.

Stiles whimpered and Derek glanced back into the room. There was a nice indentation in the new drywall that probably meant another bout of renovations would be necessary and Stiles had curled up, twitching and shivering, but human again, on the floor. And mostly naked. Derek inched close enough to touch and words began to spill out of his mouth on impulse.

“That's why we don't just change for every little thing, you know. Otherwise we'd go through clothes like you go through everyone's curly fries.”

The sound erupting from Stiles' throat settled somewhere beneath Derek's ribs, a keen, mournful whine. “You are such an asshole. Also, I still want to kill you.”

Derek smiled. “Can you stand up?”

Stiles flushed all over, but he nodded and pressed his back against the wall, pushing up. His gaze was firmly on the floor, as if he'd found the final clue for an important mystery in the debris of the living room. “This is a terrible idea,” Stiles said.

Derek couldn't help but agree. This was the worst idea he'd had in his life. “Yes, well. We can't all be mad geniuses.”

Stiles took a deep breath and brought his eyes up. He shuddered but managed to stay both standing and mostly harmless, despite his fangs growing out again. “I am pretty special, obviously.”

“That you are,” Derek said, caught somewhere between laughter and frustration. “So...”

“How is this going to work anyway?” Stiles' voice had taken on the deep resonance of the alpha. It was only a matter of time until he attacked again. “I kind of want to bathe in your intestines.”

Derek didn't have a plan. When Stiles bucked he just held on, pressing the other wolf back against the wall, immobilizing his opponent. Except, he didn't stop there, he pressed closer, aligning their bodies like pieces of the simplest puzzle. He closed his eyes and just breathed while Stiles struggled against him. This was all sorts of fucked up and he remembered being tied up, being helpless. His skin crawled with ghosts of Kate all over.

Stiles growled something that could have been “oh f'fuck'sake” and crushed their mouths together. Something shifted, changed, and the atmosphere of violence spilled into another instinct entirely. The kiss was like a rabid dog, shaky and mad and violent. Derek kept his eyes closed and let it happen because it had to, because this was the smallest sacrifice. He could feel the exact moment when all of Stiles' rage flipped over into something else, a simmering but no less demanding heat. Stiles groaned and bucked into him, seeking mindless friction.

Derek pulled back. “Hey,” he said, as gently as he knew how. “Stiles. Talk to me.”

Mewling like an affronted kitten, Stiles tried to get back into Derek's space. “No, wait, don't go away. That was nice, we should do that again.”

“No,” Derek said, glad that the pressure he exerted on Stiles' shoulders covered the worst of the tremor in his arms. And, “I think it's working.”

Stiles swallowed, eyes closing like he'd been distracted by some dirty fantasy. He hit his head on the wall as he arched back, pain or frustration carved into his expression. “No shit, Sherlock. It's definitely working. Now for the love of god, can we please go back to the kissing, _please_?” The last word was a thready whine, the essence of need. A shiver ran down Derek's back.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” Derek said. “It's working. The animal part of you is taking its cues from your higher brain functions.”

Stiles sighed. “Right. Of course. I just-”

Derek leaned into Stiles' space, putting their foreheads together. “I know. The wolf wants to get in on all that fun your brain is having.”

“Not that much fun,” Stiles said under his breath.

“Stiles.”

Stiles shuddered. “Okay. I can totally control myself. It's not like I'm a hormonal teenager with a concentration deficit or anything. It'll be fine. I mean, have you seen the people at that high school? A boy's got to learn not to pop a boner after every gym class, y'know.”

Derek laughed despite the tension in his back and shoulders. He didn't know if it came from holding himself back or holding Stiles at arm's length. “Contact helps, reminds the wolf that he doesn't have to take something that's already his. Takes the edge off.”

That at least made Stiles laugh, too, but his voice was still rough like a cat's tongue. “Dude. It does so not take the edge off. You are a lying jerk. This is all edges all the time.”

“Could be worse,” Derek says, leaning far enough back to focus on Stiles' eyes. He grinned. “You can still talk.”

“Ha ha ha,” Stiles said, not sounding all that amused. “I would have thought you'd welcome me being unable to say anything. You're always telling me to shut up.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles groaned. “Oh my god, you're trying to be funny, aren't you? I'm still going to die and you are spreading your wings, occupationally speaking. This is just great. I will lose control and someone will have to put me down and Derek Hale is auditioning for Comedy Central.”

Swallowing another laugh, Derek shook his head lightly. “You won't lose control, at least not over your anger. That's why we are doing this, remember?”

“I remember people talking me into becoming a teenage wife and some evil cackling.” But Stiles relaxed under Derek's hands, now very much depending on the wall holding him up. His face was still flushed and he looked tired, older than he had any right to look.

“It's best if you sleep with me tonight,” Derek said. “You should call your dad, let him know that you're all right.”

Stiles tensed up again. “Whoa, I thought we didn't have to do the whole mating thing. I remember distinctly you making me stop just a minute ago.” He was breathing heavier and Derek worried that he was talking himself into a panic attack. “Oh and if you hadn't noticed, I'm also naked. This really isn't my day. Or actually my week, if you think about it.”

Derek reached out with one hand and cupped Stiles' face. “Sleep, Stiles. I told you about physical contact.” Derek grinned, he couldn't help it. “All we need is enough time to teach you some control.”

Stiles wouldn't meet his eyes and Derek tried not to take it personally. This wasn't supposed to be a seduction; it was somewhat unorthodox life-support, so any feeling of rejection had to come from his animal side and its need for instant gratification. That was the only thing that made any sense.

+

Nights at the Hale house were a lot like camping out in the woods. The room Derek had been using as his sleeping quarters was a hollow shell, untouched by their haphazard renovation efforts. The mattress was nice enough, one of those pseudo-traditional Japanese futons filled with wool and straw instead of perfectly serviceable synthetic stuffing. It ended up smelling not moldy exactly, but like everything in the room had been damp just moments ago and never got a chance to dry.

Stiles wasn't sleeping. He'd fallen asleep earlier with Derek curled around him like his life depended on it, which it sort of did and that only made things so much worse. But getting cuddled by a grumpy werewolf had been comfortable enough to calm him down to normal people hysteria levels and he really had been tired from just about everything that had happened. It was fine. They were fine. No weird mating rituals, no getting married with iron-clad _'til death do us part_ clause.

He was fine. Derek was fine. Everything was fucking fine. Except that he was sleeping in a honest-to-god tomb, living the harlequin romance novel plot without any of the romance and freaking out in the middle of the night. He had to get away, just to breathe. His heart had taken up the kind of rhythm better suited to a night club dance floor. He had to untangle himself from Derek's limbs, which, okay, weird? But also kind of nice? Stiles couldn't really think clearly enough to freak out about that, too.

Stumbling into the hall and through the door that lead to the sad excuse for a kitchen (no table or chairs, an old row of cupboards with a worn countertop underneath, a microwave and a crock-pot in lieu of an actual stove), Stiles found out that the lack of electricity in most parts of the house really wasn't as much of a detriment for a guy who could see in the dark. He took a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water from one of the open bottles. The mineral water was cheap and flat and didn't really have that many minerals, but it flooded his dry mouth and took away the vile taste at the back of his throat.

He took deep breaths trying to calm himself, counting to ten on exhale. It helped with the rhythm but not much else. His hands were shaking and he gripped the glass tight enough to grind the fault lines along the crack in the rim.

“Can't sleep?” Stiles jumped a bit, startled by Derek's voice coming from the doorway. It really wasn't fair that Derek could still sneak up on him after everything. What good were wolfy powers if he couldn't even hear Derek prowl through his creaky old house?

“I was thirsty,” he said, not quite lying. He held up the glass and shook it a for emphasis. “We can't all subsist on gloom and leather.”

“I eat cold pizza sometimes,” Derek said, deadpan.

Stiles stared. “You really do think you're hilarious. That's so sad. I think I'm going to cry.” His voice cracked a little at the end but he was hoping Derek wouldn't bring it up, if he noticed at all.

Derek ducked his head, trying to hide a grin like it was some kind of crime to actually have feelings. Stiles rolled his eyes. When Derek spoke again, his voice sounded younger, higher, completely devoid of the alpha that seemed so close to the surface most of the time. Stiles still remembered how it had been just after Peter had died, with Derek so confident no one questioned him; back then they'd all thought that Derek hadn't had any trouble controlling himself, but now Stiles wasn't so sure. They'd been lucky, really, that the universe had let them rest for the weeks after that night.

“They call this the hour of the wolf, sometimes. The hour before dawn, when the night is darkest and the wolf is closest to the surface.”

Stiles laughed. There was nothing quite as fitting for the broody-wolf image as an entire emo hour devoted to being afraid of the things that go bump in the night. “That's very gothic of you, very I-dress-up-in-black-and-brood-in-a-corner if you know what I mean.”

“It doesn't come from us,” Derek said, sounding a little impatient. “For us every hour is the hour of the wolf. It doesn't change just because it's dark and quiet outside.”

“But...” Stiles made a gesture to continue, knowing there was more to this story.

Sighing, Derek crossed his arms. “It's human superstition but it doesn't mean there isn't something to it. Magic seems to be closer to the human mind at night.” He glanced to the side, seeing things that weren't really there. “For a long time, we were seen as sacred; the ability to change into something else was a precious gift.”

Stiles smiled to himself. “Yes, yes, and people would try to change by drinking water from a wolfy foot print under the full moon. Google is the only magic I need, my friend.”

“You're a smartass.”

Stiles grinned. “But that's why you like me.”

Derek didn't answer and Stiles couldn't figure out if it was because of his usual grumpiness or something else entirely. They stood there quietly for a while, Stiles sipping from his glass occasionally. It was oddly warm, nothing like the stifling heat of desire or the burn of rage he'd felt just under his skin for days. He was comfortable.

“Hey, so,” Stiles started suddenly, “is there any truth to the thing about walking around in the skin of a wolf? Because I gotta tell you, the implications of that are so not pleasant.”

Derek huffed and turned away. “You are a terrible person and you should feel bad.” Stiles laughed and watched Derek walk out the door. His heart was beating faster with every step Derek took and that probably wasn't the weirdest thing ever, but it was weird enough. He didn't know why he didn't want Derek to go.

He was just about to call out when Derek yelled back at him. “Are you coming to bed or do you want to practice brooding some more?”

A grin split Stiles face and he felt like this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

+

Scott brought some clothes for Stiles in the morning. Derek didn't know what the two of them had talked about exactly, but from the way Scott couldn't meet their eyes and kept sniffing Stiles probably hadn't mentioned the completely chaste part about sleeping together. It was admittedly pretty funny and Stiles kept grinning at Derek whenever he was trying to freak Scott out a bit.

The two hugged. A lot. They hadn't seen each other properly for a few days and Stiles' fear of turning into the Incredible Hulk had made sure he wouldn't even try to touch his friend they way they were used to. And now everything seemed to be perfectly back to normal, except that every once in a while Stiles would just sidle up to Derek and knock their shoulders together.

“Hey,” Stiles said after tussling with Scott in the woods behind the house. Derek had been watching them, tranq gun at the ready. Just in case. “You look like someone ran over your puppy.”

Derek grinned. “You look like you _are_ a puppy. How are you feeling? Any urges to rip wonder boy to shreds?”

Stiles made a face, but gave the question due consideration. “There have been some urges,” he said, “but not really any more than normal. You may not have noticed, but Scott can be a little...” Stiles waved his hands as if whatever Scott was couldn't be qualified in just one word.

“Frustrating?”

Stiles coughed. “Challenging.”

“He's pretty special.”

Stiles punched him in the upper arm; this was apparently now a thing. Derek didn't have the heart to be a dick about it. “He's my best friend, you know. When we were kids he'd try to defend me even though any kind of physical activity more strenuous than a World of Warcraft all-nighter would totally set off his asthma. He's like a brother to me.”

Derek could taste ashes at the back of his mouth, but smiled through it anyway. Laura had said that sometimes, when they first got to New York. She'd stand up to anyone who was messing with him and sling her arm around his shoulders, claiming that, sure, he was a bit of a stupid pup, but she loved him like a brother. Back then he hadn't understood why she couldn't just say that he was. Years later she'd told him that she had been afraid to speak of their old life at all, in any way. She hadn't wanted to give anyone the power that came with knowledge.

Stiles stared at him and Derek realized how he had to look, distant and maybe a little bit sad. “Sorry, I-” Stiles said. “I probably shouldn't have said that. I mean, I don't know- with your family and all. I'm shutting up now.”

Shaking his head, Derek couldn't help but smile at the way Stiles' face went through several emotions and settled on chagrin. No one else Derek had ever met had a face that expressive, that easy to read, when Stiles was in the mood to be read. Derek had no illusion that there was a pretty good liar underneath it all. When it counted, Stiles could be as inscrutable as anyone.

“I had a little brother,” Derek said, surprising himself. There had been times not so long ago when he'd thought he would never be able to talk about his family again unless it was about the fire. “He would have liked you. He always brought home little adorable woodland creatures.”

Stiles swallowed, his mouth left slightly open. Slack-jawed. “Derek,” he said. He sounded like he was about to be terribly sentimental, but then he thought better of it, shook himself out of the moment. Derek wondered if that feeling churning in the pit of his stomach was gratefulness or disappointment or something even more complicated.

Scott came bounding over to them and tugged Stiles away, eager to share some no doubt genius idea. It probably involved mayhem and public nudity. Derek wasn't charmed by their antics, not even a little, but he couldn't quite fight the smile that had taken up semi-permanent residence on his face.

Later, Lydia and Allison arrived with actual food and other things that remotely resembled foodstuffs, like the cheetos Stiles insisted on stuffing into his mouth by the handful and some sort of deep fried... well, something. Stiles nearly glowed with happiness and only wolfed out once, when Jackson tried to steal his hash browns, but had it under control the entire time. He did sit practically in Derek's lap all through lunch though, stealing from Derek's plate when his had the same stuff on it anyway. It was odd, but not unpleasant.

“I'm not going to ask,” Lydia said when they had all piled into the living room and noticed the dent in the wall.

Scott grinned. “I would totally ask. But I already know.”

Derek watched as Stiles blushed and shook his head wildly, denying that there was anything to ask about in the first place. And there wasn't, because they didn't know the right question. Something had changed here last night, it had settled and twisted in Derek's chest and now he felt both infinitely better and infinitely worse. He didn't know how mating bonds worked although he was still certain that they needed to be consummated to last forever. It was just that he'd been so focused on pretending for the wolf, he hadn't noticed that his human side was finding it difficult to grasp the difference.

The wolf part of him, the alpha in his blood and in his soul, preened at Stiles being accepted by the pack, being touched all over, so casually and with so much hidden meaning. Even Danny and Allison kept nudging Stiles, an arm across the shoulder or a poke in the ribs. It was something the pack did to their own without thinking. Having Stiles back in the pack resolved a tension that no one had really noticed building up, but now that it was gone they all breathed easier, smiled bigger and laughed louder.

It was only the boy Derek used to be, the kid who still remembered this house before it became this ashen skeleton, who wistfully brooded over things that couldn't be. Pretending to be with Stiles would not be hardship, but letting him go might just be.

Then Stiles sat down next to him against the wall, their shoulders lightly touching. “Hey,” Stiles said, without looking at him. Derek smiled.

“Hey.”

“So I've been thinking,” Stiles said. “We haven't really talked about it, but if today is any indication, I'm doing okay on the not killing my friends part of this whole thing.”

Derek narrowed his eyes. “Your control is better.”

“It really is, isn't it? I haven't felt like killing anyone or ripping limbs off or anything like that. Except for Jackson, but that's totally normal. My wolf just doesn't like dicks.” Derek snorted because he was still secretly twelve years old and Stiles' delivery was perfect. Stiles blushed and they both looked away, trying to regain some composure. “I didn't mean it like that, you dumbass. No dick jokes before dinner, seriously. Have you no manners? Were you raised by wolves?”

And Derek had to laugh at that, he couldn't stop himself. It bubbled out like a mentos in a coke bottle. Stiles looked so smug, so self-satisfied, as if all his effort had finally come to fruition. Derek could feel the rest of the pack stare at him but he couldn't find enough breath to growl at them. The laughter was tinged with many things, memories and buried emotions, but mostly it was Stiles through and through, the things Derek couldn't say out loud.

“Seriously though, do you think I can go back to school?”

+

Normalcy was the oddest thing. Life kept throwing curveballs at him and Stiles was still around to argue with his dad over dinner. Granted, he should have maybe mentioned the fact that he was fake married to Derek before dessert, but it was one of those topics that very rarely emerged naturally from a conversation.

“I have half a mind to ground you until you're thirty, but I get the feeling that wouldn't even deter you in the least.”

Stiles swallowed the bite of lasagna he'd tried to hide behind. “I, uh, don't think that's the best idea here. We aren't even doing anything, it's just a ruse.”  
  
“To trick yourself.”

“Yes!” Stiles grinned, then repeated the last bit in his head. “Well, no. I'm not doing some weird closet thing where I pretend to date Derek so I don't actually have to think about wanting to date Derek for real. It's for the wolf. Just until I can control myself without help.”

His dad made that face again. The one that sometimes looked a little bit like he would have an easier life if Stiles wasn't his son. “So there is this wanted criminal-” Stiles made a face. “He was exonerated!” A nod. “Okay, so there is this guy who is a person of interest in several brutal deaths-” Stiles kept the comment about Crazy Aunt Kate to himself, “who is sleeping with my teenage son. He also happens to be mythical beast and lives in a building that is both falling apart and a multiple crime scene.” Stiles was getting kind of a bad feeling about this. “And to top it all off, he's twenty-three years old. I'm not really seeing the positive side here, Stiles.”

Yeah, so all that stuff probably wasn't ideal, but the truth was that none of it mattered in the world Stiles had fallen into. They were pack. Derek would do anything to protect them; he'd probably die before letting any of them get seriously hurt. “He isn't taking advantage of me or pressuring me. If anything, I think I'm the one putting him in a bad position. It was my choice to do this. He's just trying to help.”

His dad still looked unconvinced. “If there's anything I can do to help you just have to say the word. Anything, son. You don't have to do this if there is another way.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Ugh, dad, now you sound like Derek. Nothing is happening, okay? You don't have to worry. He wouldn't do that, anyway.” Oddly enough he wasn't even sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, escaping from being forced into a life-long bond with a reluctant partner? Awesome. On the other hand, anyone with eyes could see that Derek was sex on legs and missing out on tapping that had to be some kind of bad karma. If he could, he'd go back to his previous life and smack himself in the head for fucking that up.

When dinner was over, his dad reminded him that he did own several guns and knew how to use them, “oh, and tell Derek people who sleep in this house are expected to help out with dinner.”

Stiles bit his lip to keep down the grin. “Sure thing, Dad.”

+

Derek had promised to stay in the parking lot so as not to attract any undue attention for creeping around like a creeper (Stiles, always so good with words), but after two hours sitting in his car like a dog, he really needed to stretch his legs. He felt a little antsy, a little on edge. There was no burning need to see Stiles, so whatever the bond was doing wasn't all that worrying right now, but his mind kept going back to the teen anyway. Where they used to talk mostly about pack stuff, Scott and how to keep everyone alive, they'd now switched to movies and books and games Stiles liked to play. They talked about music, too, which was how Derek learned that he would never, ever let Stiles drive his car. Or possibly even sit shotgun. There was no way Stiles was coming anywhere near the radio.

He was so fucking bored. Stiles hadn't asked him to stay, of course.

He could just _leave._

He should have brought a book.

Students came popping out of the woodwork, milling about the parking lot, right around the time Derek managed to fall half-asleep waiting for something he couldn't put his finger on. Or his claw, ha ha, Stiles. Now he even heard the idiot in his head, like some kind of angel/demon duo in one flailing package.

“I brought you something,” Stiles said as he leaned through the open window, holding out a white plastic bag. He shook it a little, either trying to make it more enticing by making it look like live prey – and hey, Derek wasn't a _kitten_ – or he couldn't wait to get rid of it. Derek eyed the bag warily. “What is it?”

Stiles made a face. “Nope, that's not how it works. You're going to have to see for yourself.” Derek reached for the bag, but Stiles pulled away. “Outside. In the sun, with all the normal people. I have a free period and you're going to stop being the bad guy in an after school special. Coach is already giving you dirty looks.”

Derek glared at the open window, now devoid of any Stiles or Stiles-shaped objects. He considered ignoring him altogether but Stiles had piqued his curiosity just enough that staying in the car would be torturous speculation. Maybe the bag was full of cookies. They could be walnut-raisin or chocolate chip or peanut butter, they could be anything!

“I'm doing this for the cookies,” Derek said to the steering wheel.

“You know I can hear you, right?” Stiles asked, softly mocking.

Derek grinned as he got out of the car. “I liked human you much better. Less annoyingly smug all the time.”

“Don't lie,” Stiles said, smiling as if he knew everything. “You like me. You think I'm awesome.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “You're terrible. I don't know why I put up with you, I really don't.”

Stiles didn't even dignify that with a reply, just stuck out his tongue and bounced off toward the lacrosse field and the bleachers. There were a few scattered students having a late breakfast, chattering about the latest gossip or how much they hated Mr. Harris. Two kids were doing sprints but other than that the field itself was empty. Derek still felt eyes on him, trying to puzzle out if he was a threat or something weird that could be ignored. He hoped they were settling on the latter and not just because Stiles would laugh at him if he got arrested for trespassing on school property.

“It's only a crime if they actually ask you to leave,” Stiles said. “Just pretend like you have a good reason to be here.”

Derek considered whether sitting on the sad remnants of grass would be any worse than sitting on his leather jacket. Well, his pants would probably forgive him any possible stains. The leather was one of a kind. “And do I?”

Spreading out the contents of the bag on his red hoodie, Stiles bit his lower lip. “Not where the law is concerned. But... thanks for staying. I was getting a little distracted and I think it helps that you're around. I know I need to learn to control it by myself, but thanks anyway.”

Derek sat down and picked up a packet of mini-Oreos. “Do I want to know how you got all of this?”

Grinning, Stiles stuffed something in his mouth. It looked like an entire candy bar. “I fought an epic battle with a vending machine. I may have underestimated my new strength a little when it wouldn't give me my chocolate.”

Alarmed, Derek realized that he found Stiles speaking with his mouth full charming rather than disgusting. This, clearly, was the moment his sanity had abandoned him to frolic in the woods.

+

Training after school, the kind Scott had always blown him off for with a look of consternation and a _what can you do?_ shrug of the shoulders, turned out to be a lot less military drill and a lot more puppy pile. Derek made them shift on command, run after branches he'd thrown and then joined them to play tag. It was ridiculous and fun and nothing like anything Stiles could have expected.

“You are all fired,” he said when they had all shifted back and he'd hastily put on his clothes. “Fired _forever._ ”

“What are you on about, Stilinski?” Jackson had that half-annoyed, half-confused look that always made Stiles want to punch-hug him. Then he opened his mouth and it was punch all the way.

“You all just wait until I tell Allison and Danny that training is code for _playtime._ ”

Lydia draped herself over Stiles shoulders. He had no idea when exactly it had happened but the contact lacked the thrill he thought he'd get. It was entirely friendly, no fluttering in his stomach, no nervous hope for more. Huh. “They wouldn't understand,” Lydia said, her mouth nearly grazing his ear. It should have been at least somewhat seductive, but instead it was just comfortable. “It doesn't feel the same for humans.”

Derek looked on, his face unreadable. “They are pack, but some things they just can't share.”

“Hey, no, I get it.” Stiles said. “Wouldn't want the humans to know of the very special wolf bonding rituals. Because we have this reputation, you know. Gotta be all grrr-arrr.” He made little claw gestures for emphasis. “If they ever found out this was all just a huge puppy pile, who would ever take you seriously ever again, right?”

“Something like that,” Derek said. He seemed distant in a way Stiles hadn't seen for days, not since the bite. Stiles untangled himself from Lydia and Scott, whose head had been pillowed on Stiles' lap.

“Hey, big guy, what's going on?” He somehow stumbled into Derek's space like he belonged there, hand on the alpha's shoulder. Stiles spoke quietly, but he didn't have any illusion that the peanut gallery were averting their ears. Derek wouldn't open up in front of them, probably. Those moments were reserved for the twilight of dawn.

Derek glared. Of course he did. “You should get cleaned up.” It was an order for all of them. But then he softened a little, looked at Stiles like there was something just between the two of them after all. “Your father expects you for dinner.”

It felt like a concession, as if Derek was giving something up, but for the life of him Stiles couldn't figure out what it was. “No, actually, I seem to remember he said you were going to help me make dinner. And I would appreciate if you didn't make him worry any more than absolutely necessary.”

Derek looked pained at that. Maybe in werewolf world cooking things was some kind of sacrilege. Or maybe Derek didn't know anything about cooking. Stiles had heard that some people could survive the wilds of New York armed only with take-out menus and attitude. Mostly attitude, and Derek had that in spades.

“I'll be there,” Derek said, gruff as anything. Stiles frowned, but didn't follow up. Whatever was eating away at Derek would either resolve itself or they could talk about it when there weren't three betas staring a hole in his back. Derek turned and walked away, while Stiles was still puzzling at the way their afternoon had just turned sour.

“What's wrong with him?” Scott asked, fidgeting at Stiles' side.

Stiles shook his head and shrugged. “Hell if I know. Might be his time of the month.”

Lydia bounded up at his other side, striking a magnificent pose. “It's everyone's time of the month in a few days, but that's not it. Maybe you should talk to him.”

Jackson came up behind him and brought his hands down on Stiles' shoulders. “You break it, you buy it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You are all incredibly helpful, thank you. I could go and needle him about something that he obviously doesn't want to talk about. Or I could let him sulk for a bit and not risk certain death by annoying him.”

Stiles was on edge, needy for a connection he had no real right to. If Derek was sulking he probably had his reasons, and Stiles didn't need to be a nuisance. He wanted to touch, felt the desire under his skin like a thorn. Stupid bond. Stupid Stiles, for making a mess. What if he was too pushy, too forward with affections Derek didn't want? Stiles was confused and terrified for entirely new and ridiculous reasons.

+

The thing was, Stiles couldn't stop thinking about Derek. When they were together everything was both easy and complicated in equal parts. They touched without hesitation and Stiles couldn't figure out what it meant. The wolf was mostly dormant under his skin, a part of him now more than ever. It wound around his heart like a fur stole, stretched into his limbs and filled him up with new sounds and smells and feelings. But what he felt for Derek, that wasn't entirely new. There had always been a kind of vague attraction, an awareness of Derek's insane hotness. No normal human being could look that good, it had to be a werewolf thing. He'd always noticed and it was alien enough not to be an issue.

If it had just been that, though, just the surface, Stiles could have dealt with it. Put it in a box marked _unattainable hotness_ and be done with it. Lately, what with the bond and saving each others' lives though, lately they'd actually talked, and underneath the skin of a killer was the heart of an okay dude. A guy who'd lost more than Stiles could even imagine, who still tried to help out others where he could, who tried to carve out a life for himself from ashes and ruin. And if it had just been that it would still have been okay, too, because pity wasn't a basis for a relationship.

But Derek had opinions on movies and TV shows that made Stiles rage and he knew what the right Hogwarts house was for all the cylons on Battlestar Galactica. If it had just been pity or lust, Stiles could have sublimated like a boss. But who could resist the stupid smirk when Derek stole food off his plate that Stiles never ate anyway, or the soft smile when he explained that he'd always thought Buffy was the best?

The fact was, Stiles had done something beyond stupid. He'd gone and maybe fallen a little bit in love with the werewolf pretending to be his boyfriend to save his life. There wasn't even a hotline for that shit. All he could do was silently freak out late at night with Derek draped all over him like a security blanket.

He'd lie awake and imagine a future that couldn't possibly happen, not least because Derek was only doing this for altruistic reasons. There wasn't that same constant ache in his chest, settled between his stomach and his heart. Derek would never feel the same way about him and that made Stiles whine in his sleep, made him jolt awake with a happy dream just at the edge of his consciousness and cold reality breaking his heart.

The worst thing was that all he needed to do to make Derek his forever was pretend to lose control. Derek was the kind of stupid asshole who would offer himself up to save a friend. That choice, the power of it, nearly choked Stiles every night, waiting for the full moon. Because he didn't know if he had the strength to resist. He only knew that if he ever fell, if there was ever doubt, he'd do what it took to set Derek free again.

+

The night before the full moon was bright and hot and Derek couldn't get anywhere close to sleep. Stiles had been more distant the closer they got to that night and maybe that was for the best. If he could get through his first full moon without shifting and without touching Derek they were probably safe. Then Derek could start detaching himself. Or fail miserably and pretend. He was good at that. The longer he could fool himself and everyone else that he was perfectly normal and not embarrassingly into a teenager with deer eyes and full lips always curled around a sarcastic comment, the longer he had to actually purge himself of this crush. Maybe if he pretended long enough and well enough he could even convince himself.

“You're awake,” Stiles said right around the time the moon had gone down and the deepest black suffused the night sky.

Derek sighed. “I'm not.” This only made Stiles chuckle and take Derek's hand. They hadn't really drawn any boundaries, only shied away from contact that was obviously sexual, so Stiles interlacing their fingers shouldn't feel like everything Derek ever wanted, it shouldn't make him feel too hot under his skin and maybe a little bit afraid.

“Nervous?” Stiles heart was beating fast, hard enough that Derek could feel the vibration in his own body.

Derek wrapped himself just a little bit tighter around Stiles in a way that would make it impossible to tell their heart beats apart. “About what?”

“About the chances for the lacrosse team in the state championships next weekend... what do you think I mean?”

Derek nuzzled the back of Stiles' neck. “Worrying about it isn't going to make it any easier. Maybe you can't control it yet, it's not the end of the world.” He couldn't say _maybe it would be nice to do this for another month_ because he knew how wrong it was to keep hoping their situation would stay like this. The easy comfort and closeness had filled a hole in Derek's heart he had long ago stopped noticing, but now that the hollowness was gone he couldn't imagine going back.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, but his voice had a melancholic quality. “It's not the end of the world.” Derek was torn between reassuring Stiles, because he'd shown remarkable improvement over the last few days, and quietly hoping that it wasn't enough just yet.

“You can do this,” Derek whispered, the sound low, the words tight. “I know you can.”

Stiles turned around without entirely dislodging Derek's arms. They were so close that Derek went a little cross-eyed trying to meet Stiles' searching gaze. He had no idea what Stiles was looking for, but the expression on his face was somewhere between disbelief and wonder, perhaps even suspicion. Then Stiles smiled, just the curl of his upper lip a little more pronounced. Derek wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been looking closely.

“You do think I'm amazing,” Stiles said, voice quiet but triumphant, as if he'd just won a bet. “I'm like the very best werewolf you have ever met. I am so awesome, I could have been born like this.”

Derek let his eyes flash red for a second. “You should go back to sleep. Long night tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, pulling himself closer, one hand lightly resting on Derek's hip, his head pillowed on Derek's bicep. “Yeah, let's go to sleep.”

+

Stiles went to school on the day of the full moon and it was torture upon torture. His control was a little frayed, he was a little snappish, and the wolf kept nipping at his proverbial heels. He could feel the desires and needs of the thing, could imagine in full-color detail what it would be like to bite random kids, like the cute blonde with the bad skin in gym class or what's his name, with the constant deer-in-headlights expression. During lunch he fantasized about Derek licking his neck and the two of them running free in the forest, wild and happy and together forever. He didn't eat much.

Derek was outside, just in case. They'd managed to communicate that much, despite whatever awkward thing had come between them. Maybe – no, probably – Derek had figured out that Stiles had let the proto-bond get to him or something. He was trying to keep his distance, trying to make it easier on Stiles, like being in love was an infectious disease. Thanks, Derek, really.

But Stiles didn't try to turn or kill anyone, not even once. He was miserable and itchy and wanted to get out. He wanted to run away and he wanted Derek to run with him, and not once did he lose control over the beast inside of him. It was a good sign, Scott even gave him small grins and thumbs up throughout the day. All Stiles really wanted though was to crawl in a hole and pretend this was just another day. Tomorrow they'd all train together and Stiles would stay afterward, curled up on Derek's living room floor watching Babylon 5, which he'd never seen but Derek assured him he'd love. Derek would open a bag of pre-popped popcorn and they'd sit together until it was time for bed.

Except, tomorrow they were going back to allies, friends if Stiles was lucky. There would be no more small grins, small touches, no more calming body heat late at night, when Stiles' fears were closest to the surface.

Stiles was going to be a fucking man about it. He'd keep the acceptable distance and let Derek forget all about this little interlude, even if it killed him inside. But he didn't have to like it.

+

They sat across from each other, propped up against the trees ringing a small clearing, within earshot of Derek's house. Stiles was glad he'd kept up with the stupid meditation techniques because being this close to Derek, with the full moon pulling at his skin, he needed every ounce of control, every last advantage he could squeeze from his feverish brain. All it took was one step, the rest would come automatically. Just one step and their lives would be entangled for another month, maybe forever.

Just thinking it made him sick. He wanted it so much, the touch of Derek's fingers on his skin, the feel of Derek's breath on his ear at night, the sound of Derek's heart beating in a counterpoint to his. It drove him mad with need.

He stayed put, because more than anything Stiles wanted Derek to be free, free to be happy, even with someone who wasn't Stiles. “Do you ever want to be just a normal guy?” Stiles picked up a small stone and flipped it over in his fingers. Over and over.

Derek sighed. “No.”

Stiles felt an itch between his shoulder blades. “I mean, obviously you can't, but if there were a cure, would you take it? If it meant there were no more hunters trying to kill you, no more weird bonds and, you know, stuff like that?” He'd been thinking about it himself and had no answer that felt correct. He should want to go back, be normal, but somehow the wolf had grown on him.

“Would you ask Danny if he wanted to change, be normal?” Derek sounded insulted.

Stiles rolled his eyes. He wanted to growl and charge at Derek and roll around on the forest floor. “That's not the same thing. For one, you can't catch gay from being bitten.”

Derek grinned and there was something wicked there, something that made Stiles want to lick along his jaw. “I think that would depend on who does the biting.”

“Ugh, you are so terrible. Oh my god, seriously, stop trying to make jokes, it hurts me in my soul.” Derek's laughter made everything a little bit better, tucked the wolf back where it belonged.

They waited in silence until Derek looked up at the night sky, his face bathed in moonlight. “Sometimes, after the fire. I wanted to be anything but myself. To be like everyone else would have made things easier, especially on Laura.”

Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, trying to see the girl as she had been in his dad's case file, a candid shot, not the way they'd found her in her grave. “What was she like?”

“She was my sister,” Derek said, like it explained everything, said it like a challenge. But Stiles understood, knew what it was like to remember so much about someone who was gone, to miss them in so many small and large ways that it was impossible to describe them with just words.

Silence, again. Stiles' mind was racing, tripping itself up, but the wolf never came out to play even though he could feel the urge. It was almost pleasant, the knowledge that it was there, a part of him and nothing to be afraid of. Scott had always described it as something tearing at his insides, a kind of battle, but this wasn't anything like war. He wanted to change, desperately so, and yet he never truly lost control over himself in those hours. He was always and entirely himself.

“My mom,” he said, just before dawn. “When she died, I cut my hair and changed my name so it would hurt less. But now sometimes I think it keeps her safe, when I want to remember her I think about what she used to call me and the way she would run her hands through my hair and there aren't any newer memories to interfere.”

Derek nodded, eyes cast downward. “Sometimes I worry that fixing the house will make them disappear.”

Stiles knew that fear better than anyone, though perhaps not with the same intensity. He hadn't lost everything, just half, and a smaller half at that, numerically. The part of him that wanted to touch Derek in that moment, the part that wanted to wrap himself around the werewolf and never let go, was entirely human. He closed his eyes and waited.

The first sunlight touching his skin was surprisingly hot and came unexpectedly. They hadn't slept and hadn't talked much, but when the night ended it was still too soon. There had been a strange magic in the air between them, something soothing and otherworldly. With the sun, however, came all the small, mundane things, school and pack and how to fix that hole in Derek's roof.

Stiles pushed himself up and brushed the twigs and dirt from his clothes. The test was over, he'd passed with flying colors and he should be happy, he should be ecstatic. But Derek wasn't looking at him or moving at all, and all Stiles felt was a sense of loss. If this was what growing up felt like it really sucked.

He looked at the tranq gun he'd brought and packed it away, certain now that it was no longer needed. There wasn't really anything to say. He hoisted his backpack and figured he'd just leave, words would only make this more awkward, and he had half an idea that the words _I love you_ and _please be mine forever_ rested scarily close to the surface, dancing over his tongue like imps. Embarrassing himself was one thing, but he'd already been given more than anyone could ask and his sense of fairness told him to leave Derek the fuck alone.

But Stiles felt selfish and a little broken so he took one more moment for himself. Derek tensed when he came closer, probably for good reason. Stiles tried not to take it personally, but seriously, it hadn't been that bad. He'd thought maybe they'd be friends after the awkwardness was over. That would have been nice.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets.

Derek looked up and there had to be something on Stiles' face, because in a ridiculous display of fluid grace Derek stood up and stayed right there in Stiles' personal space. It was blatantly unfair and Stiles had to swallow his first instinct, which was to climb Derek like a tree. Instead he extended his hand, waiting for Derek to stop with the staring and just take it already. He didn't know how he went from that slightly confused look on Derek's face to throwing himself at him and hanging on like a limpet though.

In the history of hugs it was probably not the best effort, but after a moment Derek's arms came up to hold him a little tighter and when Stiles whimpered a bit there was no judgment.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, because that at least was safe to say. “For saving my life, I guess, but also for not being a dick about it.”

And Derek laughed, a little high-strung maybe but real enough. “That's not exactly high praise. I'm sure you would have done the same.” The last came out more somber than either of them were prepared for and Stiles took a breath, letting go on the exhale.

If someone wanted to call it a sigh, he wouldn't stop them.

+

Derek watched Stiles leave and waited long enough for plausible deniability. When he howled, it was a mournful cry, lonely and full of longing. His only excuse was that none of his pack had learned enough to know what it meant.

The early morning light flooded the forest harshly, emphasizing every edge and rough surface. If he squinted he could imagine Laura standing between the trees, a wolf so magnificent that everything around her faded into a shadow of itself. She would have stared him down after a stunt like this and the expression in her eyes could have been pride or disappointment, maybe some of both.

“It was the right thing to do,” he said to her, feeling her closer than she had been for months. Her ghost wasn't real, not like a tangible spirit. It was merely a reflection of her, stored in Derek's mind, and coming out only when his own subconscious was mocking his choices.

She shook her head, fur glittering in the sun. When she trotted away, he thought she looked sad. “It was the right thing,” he said to himself, as if that would make it feel more like the truth.


	4. And I Never Wanted Anything From You, Except Everything You Had And What Was Left After That, Too

The Sheriff had never given much thought to the possibility that one day his son would come home at the crack of dawn, eyes wild and red – not just the red of irritated blood vessels – after spending the night in the woods for fear of turning into a monster, and that the worst of that moment would be how Stiles closed the door behind him, not even looking back, and pressed up against it, shaking with silent sobs. If he'd wondered how it would be like to see his son grow up, he certainly hadn't expected the claws digging into his door.

“Stiles,” he said, “how did it go?”

Stiles groaned and dug deeper into the wood, the scratching a counterpoint to his labored breath. “Fine. It went fine, I passed, and Derek won't be coming for dinner again. Or breakfast. I'm officially certified completely harmless. Plus my virtue is intact, so yay.”

Taking a deep breath, Stilinski tried to ignore the relief that was flooding his system. Stiles was trembling. Something was up. “I was going to make breakfast, if you're hungry.”

Whatever had taken hold of him, Stiles shook it off and straightened, tugging at the strap of his backpack. “I'm just tired, Dad. Really tired. I could sleep for a week.”

The benefit of having known Stiles for all of his life was that the Sheriff could smell a lie from a hundred paces. Most of the time he let Stiles have his distance, but these were pretty extraordinary circumstances. You couldn't really get much weirder than werewolf mating rituals and teenage hormones. Or worse than that, the first ugly hints of teenage heartbreak.

“There might be pancakes,” he said, putting his best dad voice on, cajoling Stiles with treats like a puppy. “I bought the chocolate sauce you like.”

Stiles sighed, heavy and defeated. “This is the part where you bribe me into talking about my feelings, isn't it?”

The Sheriff laughed. “Sometimes it can't be helped.”

“Oh, we could help it.” Stiles was shutting down, going sarcastic. “There is no rule that says we have to talk about any of this, we could just be manly men who grunt at each other over coffee.”

He huffed out a laugh, wise to his son's misdirections. “As if I would let you have coffee after a night like that. You'd bounce around for three hours and then crash for the better part of the day.”

Stiles bristled, twitching with warring motivations. “All right, okay. But I want eggs and all of the bacon you have hidden under the broccoli in the fridge.” His son hesitated, but then visibly decided to keep going. Pointing at him, Stiles put on his don't fuck with me face. “And just so you know, there won't be any sex talk. Once in my life was more than enough, thank you very much. I am not afraid to put my hands over my ears and sing at the top of my lungs.”

As concessions went, this was an easy one. They settled into the kitchen, Stiles at the table staring into a mug of warm chocolate milk. There was a faraway look on his face, a sadness that seemed out of place in more ways than one. Stiles looked older than he had last night, ancient compared to the beginning of the year. Knowledge and the twists of fate could do that to a guy.

“I won't say I'm not relieved,” the Sheriff began, talking to the frying pan. “Derek isn't a bad guy but it's not really what a father hopes for his teenage son.” Stiles murmured something under his breath. The Sheriff frowned but didn't turn around. “What was that?”

Taking a deep breath, Stiles rearranged his limbs, the light friction of cloth on cloth loud in the silence between them. The chair creaked, intrusively noisy, like a puppy clamoring for attention. “I said I would be lucky to have him.” Stiles voice was even, emotions hidden somewhere below. He only ever cared enough to police his expressions like that when he was feeling too much to actually put it in words. He'd sounded like that a lot after his mother had died, talking quietly about nothing in particular during the worst nights, when sleep had been kept away by blinding, crippling anxiety.

The Sheriff steeled himself and slapped a pancake on a plate in front of Stiles. He forced himself to smile, try for a light tone to match his son's efforts. “It may just be fatherly pride, but I think he'd be the lucky one.” He swallowed a bad joke and his voice softened considerably, hand squeezing Stiles shoulder for reassurance. “So when did it change?”

Stiles squeaked, the sound immediately strangled. It was a start. “Dad, what are you even talking about?”

“Are you really going to make me say it?”

Stiles' mouth dropped open, disbelief all over his face. “Are _you_? Because this is getting seriously close to triggering a childish tantrum of epic proportions for the purposes of preserving my virgin ears. And my ears are going to stay that way for the foreseeable future, anyway.”

The Sheriff sat down across from Stiles, resting his elbows on the table. “That's the problem though, isn't it?”

“Can we just not have this conversation? That would be great. Really great.” Stiles ran his hands over his face, sighing out his frustration.

“Stiles. I just want you to be okay. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but it might help. Believe it or not, but there was a time when I wasn't a sad old man.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles groaned. “I really don't need to be thinking about you like that.”

The Sheriff laughed. “Like what?”

Making a face, exaggerated disgust and pain, Stiles flailed his arms. “Like some guy who thinks about sex! Isn't there a rule or something where you can't inflict that kind of imagery on impressionable young adults?”

“I find it amusing how you think you classify as an adult.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, “making fun of the guy with the broken heart, really classy. I see how people vote for you. You're a charmer.” The Sheriff didn't have to say anything at all. In the silence following his words it slowly dawned on Stiles what he'd said and he rubbed the back of his neck, nervous or embarrassed all of a sudden. “I, uh. I didn't mean to say that. Forget I ever said that. Okay? Good.”

“It's okay, Stiles. If you are worrying about it because he's a guy, don't. I wouldn't care, not as long as you're happy.”

Stiles jumped up, too frustrated to sit. He was near bursting with nervous energy. “Dad.” His voice was strained. “Derek is a twenty-three year old werewolf that you arrested for the murder of his sister. He looks like a fucking Greek god and he actually cares about me enough to sacrifice his own happiness to save my life. The problem isn't _him_. It's me. I'm the fuck-up here. I'm the idiot who had to go and _fall in love_ like stupid Juliet. And that's the only way it can end, you know. It's all fun and games until someone gets cut in half. It can't happen, ever.” Stiles breathed shallow, hard and fast, the way he often did just before his panic took over.

There wasn't much that could be done to calm Stiles in a situation like this. Words fell like raindrops into a deep well of fear. All he could do was pull Stiles close and wrap him into a tight hug. It wasn't always the best choice, sometimes Stiles lashed out, struggled against the constricting force, but more often than not it was the thing he wanted but couldn't ask for. Stiles relaxed against him, small sobbing breaths hidden against his shoulder.

“It will be okay,” he whispered into the short hair at the top of Stiles head. “Remember Lydia, your strawberry-blonde goddess? Tomorrow it will be easier, and the day after that and the day after that. You'll live. It's not the end of the world.”

Stiles trembled. “You ever felt like this? Like you can't breathe without someone, even though it hasn't been that long, even though you know it's stupid? Like your whole future is just a drag?”

“Yeah,” he said, reluctant. He'd met her in an airport, fell in love over the course of three hours and cursed the universe when his flight had been called. He still remembered those hours with a smile, despite everything. “It was love at first sight and when we had to part ways I felt like my whole life had changed.”

“What did you do?”

He'd given her his number, knowing that he had a better chance of being hit by lightning than ever seeing her again. “I moped for about three months and then, well...” It occurred to him too late that this part of the story was probably the wrong kind of encouragement.

“Was that when you met mom?”

Closing his eyes against the pain, he nodded lightly, wondering if he should shake his head instead. She'd called three months in, happy and sunny and determined, telling him how she'd always wanted to see America, how she had an opportunity lined up and if maybe he wanted to see her again, they could meet up in Boston. He'd driven halfway across the country for her on the potential of those three hours and a phone call. “We probably weren't supposed to happen, we were from different worlds. She left everything behind to be with me.”

Stiles pushed away from his dad, searching his eyes. They never talked about her, not unless one or both of them was drunk enough not to feel the pain of her absence. “She always said you met at college.”

He sighed. “We did, technically, that second time. I'd just left the service and she had a summer internship at one of the labs on campus. Her parents had somehow arranged it, I don't know how and she never said.”

Frowning, Stiles pulled himself together, tears forgotten for the sake of a little bit of indignation. “Wait. So the girl you met, that was mom, which means... you are really terrible at this whole life lessons thing, you know. Because what you should have said is 'Stiles, son, you will get over it'-” Stiles was terrible at impersonations, but the Sheriff hadn't the heart to point that out, “-'there are plenty more fish in the sea and all that.' Instead you're telling me that Derek is probably the one I will never get over, the one I should totally marry and have babies with-” Stiles raised his finger to silence any objections, “adopted babies, obviously, and all of that would be really fucking great, teenage mom jokes notwithstanding, if Derek actually felt that way about me.”

“Do you know for sure that he doesn't? Not everyone would offer to help the way he did.”

Stiles threw his hands up. “He was saving my life and he has all this pent up guilt that probably makes this all okay in his head. But I don't think he feels that way about anyone, not since the fire. Sometimes I think he doesn't believe he deserves to be happy.” Stiles huffed a laugh that was more frustration than anything else. “Now I'm all keyed up, god, I think I'm going to school. Maybe Allison understands my pain. She has three versions of Unbreak My Heart on her iPod.”

The Sheriff smiled, small and bittersweet, as Stiles raced up to his room to get his stuff. He wondered how much he'd be in the dog house for inviting Derek to dinner again. It could backfire and hurt Stiles more than it helped, but Stiles had a heart for strays and wouldn't deny Derek the company, despite his own feelings. And the Sheriff needed a chance to assess the situation for himself before he gave his son any other misguided advice. Maybe he could invite the rest of the pack along to distract Stiles.

The phone rang, drawing his attention back to his own business. It was Deputy Ryland. Crime never slept in, apparently.

+

Stiles stumbled into homeroom two minutes after the bell, falling over his own feet and crashing into a heap of limbs two feet away from the safety of his chair. Luckily Coach Finstock was working himself into a state over Greenberg's latest transgression and only rolled his eyes at Stiles' entrance. Scott, on the other hand, was giving him one of those half grins that implied a lot of schadenfreude – loads of it, many different kinds even.

“I didn't think you'd make it to school today,” he said, a treacherous leer in his voice. Stiles narrowed his eyes at the boy formerly known as Stiles' best friend.

“Really, you're leading with sex jokes? Do I have to remind you that Allison chains you up in the basement of Derek's house? Because I have evidence and the internet is a magical place.”

Scott shrugged, a besotted smile spreading on his face at the mention of Allison. Ugh. Puppy love was so unattractive. “Aww, c'mon, I just want to know that you're all right. You were there for me when I needed you and now it's kind of my turn, right? If Derek hurt you I could totally take him on, defend your honor or something.”

Stiles grinned. “No, you really couldn't. Derek would wipe the floor with you. Besides, there's really no need to worry. We just stared at each other a lot and now I think I'm mostly okay.”

Scott looked dubious, but then Scott always had that little frown as if the world continuously surprised him just by existing. “You're really okay and not just saying that so I won't go off and get my ass kicked by your new werewolf husband?”

Groaning, Stiles hit his head on the desk. “Dude, seriously. Stop talking now.” He looked up to find Scott grinning at him. He rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling back just a little. “I'm really okay. I think I would have been okay if it had gone badly, but it didn't. I'm free as a bird.”

Something in the way he'd said that must have satisfied Scott, because they dropped the line of inquiry in favor of talking about Allison and the date Scott had planned for some kind of relationship milestone and Stiles really didn't need to know the details, thank you very much.

At lunch, everyone was staring at him, looking him over for something, maybe bruises, maybe the glow of the recently well-fucked. He let them for the time it took to shovel his fruit salad into his mouth and then he pointed at all of them in turn, with a very affronted finger. “You. You guys. You are going to stop that and I'm going to say this once so Derek won't have to. Everything is back to normal, or as normal as this town can be, all right? No werehusband jokes, no innuendo, no looks. If you make this any harder on him than it has to be I will personally rip your throats out with my teeth, and I can do that now, so don't think I won't. Let's just forget this ever happened and move on.”

Lydia rolled her eyes as she stole one of his fries (fortunately uncurly) and popped it into her mouth. “Do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

Stiles waited a moment for her to elaborate, but she was apparently practicing her cryptic mystery lady vibe. “What are you talking about?”

She looked into his eyes, searching intensely for a moment and then smiled. Patting his cheek, she cocked her head the way she always did when she was about to bring a smack down of epic proportions. “You'll have to figure that one out for yourself, it really wouldn't be any fun otherwise.”

Danny – beautiful, perfect Danny – threw a pea at her. “I am surrounded by terrible people.” Then he smirked at Stiles. “I'd ask what I ever did to deserve this, but then I remember that Jackson is my best friend.”

“Hey!” Jackson said. “No fair. I'm an awesome friend.”

Everyone gave Jackson the same half-smirk. Danny ducked his head, hiding a smile. “Of course you are, puppy.”

Lydia snorted. “It's cute because he actually believes that.”

Scott, who'd been staring at Allison somewhat dreamily, perked up at that. “Which one?”

Leaning over the table like she was about to share some great secret, Lydia stage-whispered: “Both of them.”

They laughed at Jackson's expense and the conversation shifted to more mundane things – lacrosse and the book they had to read for English. If anyone came up to their table they'd just think this was any other group of normal kids, perfectly ordinary. Stiles drifted off during Lydia's explanation of why Pride and Prejudice was a metaphor for Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, never mind that the timelines didn't match up, have you never heard of timey-whimey, wibbly-wobbly stuff, god really?

He was scanning the lunch crowd, his gaze settling on a boy with a fading bruise on his cheekbone and a perpetual hunch in his shoulders. The instinct to seek out candidates for the pack was still there, but idle now, merely a sizing up of potential, to be filed away for future use. He wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to bite someone, give them this gift or this curse. There was power in it, exhilarating power, something he could get addicted to faster than processed sugar. It was probably for the best that he never had to find out. Their pack was stable enough with Scott, Jackson and Lydia balancing him and Derek, not to mention Danny and Allison who kept them all human.

“Hey,” he said, still distracted by thoughts of biting and Derek, “is there another training session today after school?”

“Yeah,” Allison said, “Derek likes to have them around on the day after the full moon. Danny and I were going to get coffee, if you want to join us.”

Stiles shook his head, grinning like a wolf. Or a demented raccoon, whichever. “No, I think I'll crash that party. Make sure he doesn't kill them for some stupid innuendo.” And to prove that he could be around Derek and not make a fool of himself, but his friends, his pack, didn't need to know that.

“And seriously, no meddling. I don’t want to hear a peep out of anyone about relationships or crazy werewolf sex or true love’s first kiss or any of that fairy tale bullshit, alright? I am not afraid to use my new powers to murder this pack and start new with some better candidates.”

Lydia looked like she might want to disagree, but Stiles held up his hand. “No. Just no. Let’s go to class.”

+

Derek didn't feel bereft, because that would be childish and make him into even more of a romance novel cliché than he already was. He merely felt the effects of a half-formed bond twitching under his skin, reminding him at inopportune moments of the curve of Stiles' ear or the soft, silky stubble that passed for hair. He wasn't pining, it was just biology. Or magic. There were old werewolf instincts clamoring for attention, but the werewolves of old had been revered, integrated in their communities, not cowering in shadows like dogs. He had no use for those feelings.

The house felt cold and empty for no good reason. Stiles hadn't even slept over that often and he would have been in school now no matter what. Still, the floor boards creaked as Derek strode past and the walls loomed with intent. He growled at his ghosts. They had no voice nor any reason to complain, but he could feel their silent judgment in the back of his mind.

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped at the memory of his sister, smirking with the knowledge of an untold secret.

For the first time in months he felt unsettled, unfinished. He was burning with the need to do something, anything to distract him from the part of him that was missing. The house made for a perfect diversion, every unfinished corner begging for attention. It was easy to get caught up in plans, to keep a list of supplies he would need in his head, and if the voice spelling out the words sounded a little bit like Stiles, no one needed to know.

The final tally of things that needed fixing was frankly intimidating, but Derek had expected no less. Over the past few months he'd done the bare minimum to turn the house from public hazard to something his pack might spend a few hours in and not ask the obvious questions. Why he was still sleeping in a room that smelled of death, why he hadn't just torn it down and rebuilt. He'd even let them help out with the parts of the house they would most likely occupy, let them turn it into something that was almost livable.

Sometimes when people were drowning and everything went dark at the edges, when the breath they couldn't take seared their lungs, they forgot that there was any other way to be, that there had been a time when they'd been able to swim. Coming out of it, breaking the surface, that first breath hurt more than death.

Derek shivered with the sudden knowledge that he could breathe again.

“Oh fuck,” he said and dropped to the ground. He leaned against the wall of his burned out house and thought about his future for the first time in over six years.

The pack crashed through his front door maybe an hour later, yapping like the puppies they were, falling all over themselves. Derek was startled by how much their simple presence lit up the place, like the house had been waiting for them. When they saw him sitting in the hall, they all stopped, shuffling nervously as if he hadn't noticed Stiles the moment the jeep ground to a halt outside.

“Uh, hey Derek.” Scott shifted to block Derek's view of Stiles and Derek mentally rolled his eyes. What had Stiles been telling these idiots?

Derek rolled to his feet and stretched his arms, groaning as he worked out a kink he hadn't noticed while having his moment of catharsis. “You're late,” he said, even though there hadn't exactly been a schedule, but it helped with keeping them off their game so they wouldn't notice his own imbalance.

Lydia, of course, only narrowed her eyes at him. “Hardly, we only stopped at Danny's house to drop him and Allison off, and the wonder twins here had to stop at the Sheriff's place because someone needed a change of clothes, but other than that we came right after lacrosse practice.”

They looked a little shifty, but Lydia wasn't lying and Derek didn't have the patience to figure out what was going on. He glanced at Stiles and nodded, making sure the kid knew there wasn't going to be any weirdness left over after their predicament. Except, of course, that that was a total lie and something in Derek's chest tightened painfully when Stiles gave him a simple nod in return. Message received.

“We're running today,” he said, because while they were gasping for air, they couldn't make any witty observations.

None of them were happy, but Jackson moaned the loudest. “C'mon, we've just done an hour of suicides in practice. This is not cool.”

Derek glared at his pack. They looked singularly unimpressed. To his surprise, Stiles was the one to speak up, clapping Jackson on the shoulder. “Those were sprints, I bet Derek is making us do cross-country. Completely different types of muscles and breathing and everything.”

Stiles aside, none of them were actually wearing appropriate work-out attire, but Derek had long ago given up any hope of teaching them the value of comfort over fashion. It was the curse of a pack that included Lydia Martin, who had decided that if she was going to scamper through the woods like some wild thing, she would do so looking nothing short of fabulous.

Outside they all took their shoes off, chattering away as they did the laziest stretches Derek had ever seen. Derek went to stand next to Stiles, side by side, which gave him an excuse not to look him in the eye. An excuse for both of them, really. There hadn't been as much discussion about the aftermath as there maybe should have been, considering how hard Stiles had worked on his control and how bad it might have been if that hadn't been enough.

When Stiles made a move to take off his shirt, Derek grabbed his wrist and shook his head. “Like them,” he said, nodding at the betas in their half-wolf form. “That way you have most of your strength and speed, but also most of your faculties. It's harder to lose yourself in the hunt.”

Stiles swallowed whatever retort had been on the tip of his tongue. He was pale, except for the small blush high on his cheeks, but he nodded sharply, shaking off Derek's grip. There was a commotion at Derek's back, Scott and Jackson hissing at each other, with Lydia's voice throwing in a few barbed comments every now and then, but Derek had more important things to worry about. Stiles had never done this before, the controlled shift that settled into a balance between human and wolf. He watched as Stiles shook out his limbs, scrunching up his face, and Derek forced himself not to smile.

“Try to focus on something precious,” Derek said gently, thinking about the nights he'd lain awake listening to the flutter of Stiles' beating heart. “Something you want to protect.” Derek could feel his own transformation tingling over his skin, his voice going a little deeper. “Something that keeps you grounded, keeps you human.” The small smile playing on Stiles' lips made Derek want to do stupid, reckless things. “Imagine that this precious thing might be in danger, that you have to do everything in your power to keep it safe. From you as much as from the world.”

For a long time Derek had believed that the wolf fed from his rage, that it was born in the parts of him that were burned and broken, sometimes even forgetting that he'd been wolf long before he'd been scarred. It took years to finally heal, to understand that the wolf had always been love, a savage and wild thing, but love nonetheless.

“That's incredibly cheesy,” Stiles said, but he smiled like he didn't mind a bit of cheese. “Next you're going to explain to us the balance of the universe and how we're all connected in a circle of li-” The world tipped, something crashing hard into Derek's back, making him stumble forward into Stiles, both of them crashing to the ground with a huff of air. Derek braced himself on his elbows to keep from crushing Stiles beneath him.

The pup responsible for the accident made his excuses – Scott, of course, mumbling “sorry, guys, got a little carried away” with laughter in his voice – and Derek tried to remember how to breathe. Stiles was picking a stray leaf out of Derek's hair and they shared a long conversation about the idiocy of their pack in exasperated glances.

“You can get up now,” Stiles said, mirth spilling from his expression.

Derek huffed, fighting the instinct to bury his head in Stiles' shoulder and just _stay_. Instead, he pushed to his feet and offered Stiles a hand, no hard feelings. Or anything else. “Come on, first one at the lake can pick what we get for dinner.”

And with that, the pack was off, playfulness leaving their limbs as the hunt took over. Derek led them through the preserve in a wide arc until they reached the lake. It was a beautiful day and hot enough that no one complained when he ordered them to swim. He allowed them a little time for basking before he chased them around the lake and gave them all little tasks. Jackson came back with a squirrel, Scott brought a rabbit, and Lydia looked shaken and pale when she stalked back to the clearing he'd picked as a base.

“There is something you need to see,” she hissed, looking a little green. “It's this way.”

She'd not led them far when Derek picked up the scent, the metallic tang of blood and the sweet stink of rot. The deer, a massive specimen with an impressive set of antlers, was splayed across a large rock, almost like an offering. Blood had soaked the ground right underneath and gave the whole scene a savage appearance. This wasn't a natural kill, it wasn't _animals_. Derek stalked forward, careful not to disturb the site too much.

“I found it like this and you know I'm not the squeamish sort, but this.” She paused, running a hand through her hair. She'd gone completely human again, more in need of her brain than the kind of brawn that came with the transformation. “It's wrong somehow. I'm not sure how.”

Derek reached out to touch the carcass, running his claws along the unbroken fur, down to the hole that had once been its chest and stomach. The muscle was mostly intact, but the inner organs had spilled out, intestines thankfully unbroken. “They've taken the liver and the heart, nothing else.”

“Could be a ritual,” Stiles said, creeping up on Derek's left shoulder. “Or maybe they're just really picky eaters.”

Derek twitched. He didn't want Stiles anywhere near this thing. It felt like trouble, like a bad situation waiting to get worse. “They might have been wolves,” he said, uncertain. The smell was vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. Human though, or nearly. They could have been wolves in their human forms.

“We should report this, shouldn't we?” Scott sounded not at all sure and maybe a little nauseous.

Derek frowned at the corpse. If they reported it, it would only be a matter of time until the Argents began sniffing around, investigating another atypical animal attack. He didn't want this kind of scrutiny this close to the house. This was very much his territory and the thought of having all this activity here was somehow worse than the knowledge that some kind of threat was lurking in the bushes. “Call your dad,” he said to Stiles, “let him know that this smells like trouble.”

Grinning at the tired wordplay, Stiles nodded and fished his phone out of his pocket. “Aye aye, Captain! Consider it done.”

The dead animal did not provide any more clues, but a sense of dread settled at the base of Derek's skull regardless.

+

Danny and Allison joined them for their post-training traditional movie watch and Stiles made popcorn in a skillet over an open fire behind the house, then threw away the charred kernels and dumped some melted butter over pre-popped corn. No one would know the difference, and if they did, they had better not mention it if they wanted any.

The entire pack had curled up on what was essentially flea market reject items and were arguing over which movie to put in. Lydia brought up _The Notebook_ , not because she had any intention of watching it – in fact, Derek had banned all copies from the premises – but for the vehement complaints she got from all quarters, especially Allison. Stiles secretly thought it was a wicked bargaining tactic, considering that anything else she might offer up as a choice would immediately be jumped upon.

He grinned at her when he passed around the smaller bowl and she rolled her eyes. “Bribery only works when you actually put some effort in, you know.”

His grin widened as he winked. “Alpha's privilege.”

Derek growled at that and made a grab for the bowl Stiles still had in his hand. The ensuing small-scale scuffle landed Stiles wedged between Derek and the arm of the derelict armchair. He was distracted enough by that turn of events that he was entirely surprised by the opening of _Clueless_. He leaned closer to Derek and whispered, “Why do I always feel this strange kinship with Cher?”

Sighing with that bitch-please eye-roll he'd perfected over the last few months, mostly in reaction to Stiles, Derek leaned even closer, lips grazing Stiles' ear. “It's the jeep.”

Lydia hushed them with a glare, but as she turned away Stiles could see her smile. The entire pack looked terribly amused, like they knew something Stiles had missed and were incredibly smug about it. He fell asleep on Derek's shoulder halfway through, wondering if Danny was his Christian and whether or not him being a guy changed anything about that particular dynamic. He very decidedly didn't think about Derek being his Josh, not even a little.

+

Derek knew he was dreaming, not just because he felt the presence of his family somewhere at the edge of his senses, but because the house itself was brighter, less weighted with the ghosts of the past. He found himself alone in the living room, cheerful wallpaper worn slightly in the way of a house full of people living and breathing within, and he felt his chest constrict for a moment. His own pack was still under his skin, the scent of Stiles and Scott and the others hovering around him, soaked into his bones.

But this was something he had to do alone. He'd read enough shitty fantasy novels to know that he was about to have a strange symbolic revelation that would only make sense in the nick of time, if ever. He opened doors and expected to find odd things like children with no faces holding doves and playing tea party with the universe, but all he could see were the rooms of his house as it had been years ago on a summer morning, empty but waiting for everyone to fill it up again.

His father was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. Derek stood frozen at the door, unsure whether to call attention to himself or just watch. His dreaming mind, however, seemed to have other ideas.

“Don't just stand there,” his father grumbled, “get out the pans. Your mother and Laura are out hunting and we've been promised deer for dinner.” His father had a wry sense of humor, a gruff exterior hiding the genuinely good heart underneath.

Derek remembered this or a day like this. The summer before he'd turned sixteen had been strangely melancholic, as if the specter of tragedy had somehow reached back in time to make them all cling a little harder, huddle a little closer. In a way it had been the best summer of his life, family close around him and no fear in his heart. He'd worked on the house with his father, making his mark on the place that had been theirs for generations. He'd run with Laura in the woods, trying to catch her as she laughed and howled, bright and free and beautiful.

“I'll peel the potatoes,” he said and for the first time his guilt and grief felt distant, manageable. His father looked up and smiled, a please but unsurprised expression. Derek had never been rebellious, not until Kate.

“You're a good kid,” his father said, patting his shoulder as he passed on his way to get out the plates. “Don't forget that.”

“I won't,” Derek said. He believed it, too, for the first time in years.

They worked in silence, preparing food with practiced ease. Laura and him hadn't cooked much in New York and when they did it was more of a stop-gap measure than anything fancy. He'd forgotten how his father would sometimes grin and use his claws for the chopping, a secret kept between them because mom hated the mess it made. He'd forgotten, too, how easily he could slip into the soothing rhythm of it, how it made him feel like he was doing something right.

“Your life hasn't been easy,” his father said with a wooden spoon halfway to his mouth. He sounded older, quiet and a little sad. Derek had never heard him like this. He didn't dare try to catch his expression, the voice alone was enough to send chills down his spine. “We should have been there for you. If we had paid a little more attention to you, perhaps none of it would have happened. You were always so strong, so independent, we just didn't know.”

Derek swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to cut off his air. “Dad, no. No, it wasn't anything to do with you. Any of you. I was young and stupid and I made a terrible mistake. I should never have-”

His dad spun around, anger and grief making a startling caricature of his face. “Kid, no one can read a psycho if she don't want you to. But she's dead and buried now, isn't she? It's time to let the wounds heal.”

Derek whined, a sound like the creaking support beams of a burned out house. “I'm sorry, dad. I am so sorry. I can't- I wish-”

Strong arms came up around him, holding on, and Derek thought of Stiles. “Shh, kid. Don't worry about it. There isn't anyone in this family who blames you for what happened. You wouldn't spend a second blaming that Scott boy of yours for wearing his heart on his sleeve, so don't you go making a special case for your own mistakes. You're human as much as you're wolf, no matter what your grandfather might have to say about that, and we all make mistakes. That's what it means to be human.”

“Most teenagers don't get their entire family killed though,” Derek said, wondering if Stiles' barbed commentary was rubbing off on him. He never used to be this mouthy.

Of all the things, his dad actually laughed. It was surreal and a little intimidating. “We always figured you'd turn out to be gay or a vegan or something, the psychopathic murderer was a bit of a surprise.”

“It was a surprise to me, too,” he said, and then he processed the rest of that sentence. “You thought I'd be gay? Or _vegan_?” This had to be one of those supernatural dreams, because in no way, shape or form had he ever thought of himself as possibly forswearing meat.

His dad shrugged, a smile in his voice as he said, “Ah, well. You were always a little different. We didn't really care except for the part where your mother bet me twenty bucks that you were going to steal Laura's boyfriends. I stuck up for carrots in self-defense.”

In all fairness, Derek had had a fondness for carrots. When he was five. And he'd... entirely forgotten about that, pushed everything human and vulnerable away, leaving in its place a wounded, terrified animal. It struck him that he might actually be talking to a proper spirit. There had been stories, of course, but he'd never met a ghost that couldn't be explained by leaky faucets, old walls and the vast imagination of humanity.

And with all that he could ask, all the forgiveness he could beg, he had no idea what to say. “Dad,” he said and couldn't breathe any further.

“You have to let go of that guilt, son, and stop using your heart like a nuclear bunker.”

With those words, the dream began to shift and Derek cursed, trying to hold on, but something in the real world was pulling him back. He came awake with tension in his neck and shoulders, Stiles drooling on his chest, and Lydia covering them with a blanket. She grinned, wicked and smart as a whip, and Derek gave up the fight for the night. He glared at her, but stayed where he was, one arm keeping Stiles from falling on his ass.

“It's okay,” she said, smiling at Stiles' stupid head. “No one's going anywhere tonight. You can sleep.”

+

Breakfast with the pack was a gloriously messy affair, one that Stiles orchestrated deliciously. He couldn't really indulge in fatty breakfast foods at home, what with his dad's cholesterol, so he made up for it by burying his friends in bacon and scrambled eggs, waffles, pancakes, french toast, and hushpuppies for the irony.

Everyone had the distinct air of a teenage sleepover, sitting on the floor and leaning against what passed for furniture, all silly pajamas and over-done makeup that was more enthusiasm than expertise. Scott and Allison were feeding each other orange slices, which got some approval from Stiles if only for the fact that they had a balanced approach to sexy nutrition. Danny, Jackson and Lydia on the other hand were proof why glistening films of oil and finger food were a good idea early in the morning. Or any time of the day, really.

When Derek came in the activity of the pack settled a little, taking their cues from his mood. Stiles dropped a plate with extra bacon and eggs in the hands of their big bad wolf. “Good morning, Mr. Grumpy Pants.”

Derek stared at the food, something odd going on in his face. He didn't look sad exactly, just wistful like the heroine of a romantic novel at the end of the first act. Stiles touched his shoulder and made a face that was half demented grin, half encouraging eyebrow action, hoping to get at least a smile out of him. Before Derek could react though, Stiles tensed all over, not quite sure exactly why.

“Cars,” Lydia said and Stiles noted distantly that the rest of the pack were at attention, the wolves' eyes gleaming gold.

“At least two,” said Jackson.

Derek closed his eyes for a moment, the only outward sign that he was as disturbed as they were. Stiles frowned. There shouldn't be any visitors, not this early in the day and not out here in the woods. There weren't any traveling salesmen stupid enough to try their luck in a place like this. Then as the vehicles came to a halt and doors slammed, Stiles heard the telltale click of guns being readied.

His whole body shuddered and he thought it was fear, at first, but the emotions churning in his gut were red-hot and bitter, fury and possessiveness battling for dominance. “Hunters,” he spit out between his elongated teeth. Fuck.

Derek grabbed his upper arm, claws digging hard into the flesh. “Stiles,” he growled, a warning. Of course, it wouldn't do to rip the hunters' faces off if they were just going for creepy social call, but Stiles wanted them off his territory _yesterday_.

And Stiles would be the first to say that Scott, who was his brother in all but blood, didn't always play with a full deck, but sometimes Scott was a fucking genius. “Butt!” he yelled, triumphant, like he'd just figured out the meaning of life and the tension in the room shattered, everyone staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. But Scott shrugged, grinned that rueful, hapless grin of his – and Stiles was beginning to think it hid a multitude of sins – and said, “What? I thought we were playing word association.”

Allison, who'd sort of had that pinched choose-between-family-and-pack look on her face, was the first to laugh and it snowballed from there until they were all wheezing with it, gasping for air and one look at Scott would set it off again. Stiles reached over and ruffled Scott's hair, grinning and more than a little grateful.

“I love you, bro. You are literally the best.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but there was a glint in them, like he knew that this was the truth and was just too much of a nice dude to actually preen with it. “Love you, too, buddy.”

That's how Chris Argent found them, relaxed and happy, perfectly and ordinarily human. No lie, Stiles enjoyed the pinched expression on the hunter's face and the heavy sigh when he nodded at Allison. Thankfully, he'd left his goons outside and Stiles would never again complain about small blessings. Derek blocked the way into the kitchen, but it was Stiles who bristled and called the hunter out.

“What brings you here this early in the morning? Busy schedule and need to get your daily dose of harassment early? Because I'm sure we'd all be fine without, it's not like we live for your vaguely disapproving frowns. We've got Derek for that.”

And, okay, so it probably wasn't the best idea of his life to draw himself up and stand shoulder to shoulder with Derek, making it blatantly obvious that the power distribution in the pack had changed in some not so subtle ways. But he couldn't help the surge of protective instinct, or the thrum of power under his skin, and Derek, the idiot, didn't do anything to stop him. In fact, Derek turned slightly toward Stiles, accommodating him in the small space of the doorway. It didn't go unnoticed.

“I should have guessed it was you,” Chris said, his grin all teeth. “My men did say the new alpha looked kind of odd, but then I guess the shape you take can be influenced by the type of person you are.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, resting a hand on Derek's shoulder to keep him from doing anything stupid. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Whoo-hoo, Stiles is the weird one. Try another one, this one's falling asleep it's so tired.”

Chris crossed his arms and shook his head lightly. “I'm not here for jokes, kid. There was a body in the woods-”

“Yes,” Stiles hissed, “the deer, we found it. It's got nothing to do with us.”

Suddenly Chris was all up in his face. “No, I'm talking about the dead guy we discovered last night, scratched up like a crazy cat lady's furniture.”

Stiles swallowed down his first instinct, which was to claw Chris' face off. That really wouldn't help getting the point across that they were all very tame and wouldn't go around just killing random people. Especially him, because that's what this was about. Allison's dad thought Stiles had been indulging his taste for murder. “Look, I didn't do anything and if you don't believe me, just ask your daughter. We were all here last night.”

“It's true,” Allison piped up, defiance in her voice. Stiles had always liked her for a reason.

“Okay,” Chris said, backing away enough to let Stiles breathe without the sharp smell of gun oil and discharge residue clogging up his senses. “But if it wasn't any of you – and I'm not convinced that this is true – then what?” His eyes flicked to Derek. “Another rival pack moving into your territory, Derek?” It sounded like mockery and accusation.

Stiles dug his very human nails deeper into Derek's shoulder, not a hundred percent sure if he was doing it to anchor himself or Derek. “Could be. Maybe it's an actual animal attack. Maybe it's fairies. It's not our problem.”

Chris laughed, looking between Derek and Stiles like he'd figured something out. “I see how it is, then. I didn't think you were the type, Derek. Does he know what it means to be an alpha's mate, to be tied so thoroughly that nothing short of death can tear you apart? Does he know the responsibility he has for the pack, for every wolf in his territory?”

Derek was eerily calm when he finally spoke. “He knows enough. We appreciate the warning. You should go.”

“This isn't over, you know.” Chris turned to leave, but apparently getting in the last word twice was just what badasses did on their days off. “And I might have a chat with the Sheriff about the company his son is keeping.”

Stiles chuckled. “You do that, Mr. A. I'm sure he'll take any parenting advice in the spirit it is given.”

+

The pack was in a state of anxiety, picking up nervous tics from Stiles the way dogs picked up the habits of their owners. Derek needed to stay calm; he needed to figure out what to do next. A dead body was enough to whip the hunters into a frenzy and they wouldn't stop to check if any wolf they encountered in the forest at night was the one they were looking for or not.

“Look, I'm just going to call my dad and then we can handle this like the adults we so clearly aren't.”

Stiles had his phone out. He looked determined in a way that reminded Derek of Laura, after. They all waited as Stiles got the necessary information, listening in on both sides of the call with varying expressions of guilty conscience. The body that had been found in the woods had been dead before whatever creature had savaged it, so at least they weren't dealing with killers just yet. It wasn't much. Of course there wasn't a magical taste of human flesh that turned wolves from regular people into murderers, but someone willing to desecrate a body wasn't far away from more serious transgressions.

“We need to find them,” Derek said over lunch, finally. They were at the burger place close to the school, a place he'd once frequented with Laura.

Everyone stared, frozen, and admittedly he hadn't contributed much to the increasingly frantic conversation since this morning, but that didn't mean he hadn't been paying attention. Stiles frowned at him. “Remember the last time we went all territorial on some wolves?” Stiles gestured at himself.

Derek sighed. “We are much better trackers than the hunters can ever hope to be, and by magnitudes more equipped to deal with feral wolves than the police department. If these wolves are going to kill someone and we could have found them first, how are any of you going to live with that?”

Stiles swallowed a ridiculous mouthful of fries and reached for his hand. Derek allowed the contact despite his urge to take more than what was offered, take everything he could. “You think that they can be saved, don't you?” Derek shook his head, but there was a small truth in there. He wasn't above taking down a threat, never had been, but the hunters thought of them as _animals_. They deserved to be judged by their own kind.

“It's our territory. That makes it our responsibility in a way.”

But Stiles got a strange, distant look that Derek didn't like, and pulled back his hand. “Are you mangling a Spider-man quote right now?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “No.” Then he thought about it. “Okay, maybe.” That got half a grin out of Stiles and wiped away that odd expression, so Derek called it a win.

+

Stiles had an idea. He was lying in bed, throwing a ball at the ceiling repeatedly, supernatural reflexes not really working for him as they should. Maybe coordination was something that didn’t come with the package and he’d always overshoot on the catch. It was totally a metaphor for his life.

His hunch was telling him that the problem with the wolves could be solved without shedding any more blood. But if he wanted to save them, he needed more help than even Deaton could give him. Because Deaton was, ultimately, just human. And this was a wolfy problem that needed a wolfy solution. Probably. He jumped up and settled in front of his computer, beginning an idle search on weather patterns and travel advisory for the next few weeks.

+

Derek led them through the forest, toward the latest Beacon Hills crime scene, where the Argents had found the mangled body. Police had already cleared most of the evidence away, but yellow tape still demarcated the immediate surroundings, doing little to keep out curious passersby if the myriad smells were any indication.

“Oh,” Danny said, “I didn't think there would still be blood.” He didn't sound particularly bothered by it, a note of clinical interest rather than disgust in his voice. Derek wondered idly if anything could faze the boy.

Circling the area of dried, flaky blood and guts, Derek was assaulted by the sweet-sour scent of rot, the same smell that had clung to Laura's body when he'd buried her. He swallowed down the rage that still sat under his breast and tried to sort out the other smells, from gawkers and woodland creatures, to find that sharp, spicy hint of wolf. When he found it, he froze, startled by the realization that this was somehow his fault, again.

Stiles yelped before Derek could say anything. “Oh fuck, no. Of course. Of course this happens, because nothing in this crappy town is ever easy.”

Derek turned to Stiles. “You recognize the scent.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “They smell like responsibility, Derek. Or delicious universal irony. Take your pick.” Stiles' eyes flashed red, anger apparent in his gravelly voice.

The others huddled around them, picking up the trail, and Lydia sighed. “The betas we let go. Why didn't we notice this before, with the deer?” Then she narrowed her eyes. “No, wait, don't tell me. They were in human form when they did cardiac surgery on the local fauna.”

Derek nodded. “I think so. But this happened the night of the full moon, they didn't have control then. The deer was a message.”

Jackson grumbled. “What kind of message are we talking about here?”

“They want your attention,” Allison said, glaring at Derek, a calculating expression in her eyes. Her hunter instincts were kicking in. “It could be a challenge.”

Nodding at her, Derek began to evaluate their options. If they left the two strays to their own devices, sooner or later they would kill someone. But leaving them to the hunters would be its own kind of betrayal. The strays were ultimately their responsibility – Derek and his wolves had destroyed their pack, killed their alpha. Tradition dictated that it was Stiles who should decide their fate, having taken the place of their alpha and cut them loose, but Stiles was part of Derek's pack now. In the end, Derek would do what had to be done.

“They will try to attack us, pick us off one by one. They will attempt trickery to take us by surprise. One or both of them will try to rise to alpha rank by any means necessary.” He glanced at Stiles, then, because out of the two of them, Stiles looked more like easy prey, regardless of any actual ability. He was young, not a born werewolf, and just barely beyond his first moon. He'd be their primary target. “We will have to find them first, but we have to be careful. They have nothing to lose. We do.”

Stiles chuckled darkly. “That's his way of saying we've unleashed the murder twins on Beacon Hills and I'm on the top of their hit list.”

“Alright,” Scott said, anxious with the threat to his friend's life. “What do we do?”

“Lydia,” Derek said. “You, Danny and Allison take the car and follow the roads. Try to pick up their trail but don't engage. Follow them and try to find out where they're hiding.” The girl nodded, a dark smile on her lips. “Scott, Jackson. You two cover the preserve. No fighting. If you find them, call in and wait.”

His pack took off, instinctively excited by the promise of a good chase. That left Stiles, whose face was stony and unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. “Just so we are clear,” Stiles said, “you will not order me around. You and I both know that this comes down to me and I'm going to end this one way or another.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I wasn't planning on making you do anything, but now I'm thinking about tying you up and leaving you as bait.”

Stiles lips twitched. “No, you're not, but it's not a bad idea.”

“It's a terrible idea. You're more useful with all your limbs in working order.”

“You just want me to be able to run away, don't you?”

Derek forced a grin, all teeth. “It's one thing you're good at.” The words came out harsher than he intended and he flinched back from his own ferocity. There was no way he would really blame Stiles for Derek's own inability to keep his feelings in their neat little boxes. Stiles, thankfully, hadn't picked up on Derek's momentary lapse.

“I am indeed a master at hightailing it out of a dangerous situation, no pun intended.” Stiles loosened up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really though, what's the plan? I assume we're taking the east side of the forest and if you triangulate the town, and the two bodies, it's the most likely place they'd be, so you really just wanted the rest of the pack out of the way.”

Derek growled, mostly because he was apparently too transparent by half. He took of his jacket and headed for the trees. “We're going to hunt,” he said, dropping the leather at the root of a large oak. He stripped off his t-shirt and added it to the pile as Stiles squeaked and ambled to his side.

“Right, of course, naked frolicking in the woods. That's tactical genius right there.”

Derek huffed. “We're both faster and stronger than a beta when we're fully shifted. Our senses will be better able to find them before they do something we will all regret.”

Stiles blushed as he struggled out of his hoodie. “I'm not complaining, just making a point.” Derek probably shouldn't watch as Stiles turned away to take off his jeans, but the temptation was too strong to resist entirely. The pale glimpse of flesh, the hint of lithe muscle under freckled skin, it was enough to harden his resolve. No one was going to mark him, no one would dare to hurt what was Derek's.

He cast his gaze to the ground, chastising himself. He'd protect Stiles where he could, but there was no claim to lay. Stiles was his own man, his own wolf.

+

Running with Derek under the pale moon was glorious, free yet intimate – everything he'd imagined and more. There was still a certain distance between them, their movements guided by their purpose, the trail of their prey lingering before them. But the job they had to do didn't stop Stiles from snapping at Derek's tail end, from growling lightly and bumping Derek's shoulder as he put on speed to draw ahead.

Stiles had been so enthralled by Derek's naked back earlier, the flex of his muscles as he had stripped out of his clothes with economical movements, no energy wasted for preening, despite his considerable assets... anyway, he'd been so enthralled he'd nearly fallen face-first over a tree root. If Stiles had a body like that, he'd probably drape it over every available surface, showing off like nobody's business.

They ran faster and harder than Stiles had thought possible. The wind tore at him and strange scents tried to catch his attention, pulling him this way and that. But every time Stiles began to stray, Derek was there to nudge him along with a yip or a semi-playful bite. The trail solidified as they came closer to the town itself and Stiles' hackles went up all along his back. He could feel the tingle of it, the shudder.

“Stay,” Derek said, and Stiles could feel the subtle meanings of it under Derek's breath. Stay by my side, stay down, stay safe, stay in this form. He was going to argue just for the sake of it, but Derek's change caught him by surprise, all naked flesh and solid muscle. And then the strays came into view, two feral dogs shaped only vaguely like humans and Stiles forgot to watch the magnificent play of muscles in Derek's back.

These were his. The wolves he'd abandoned. By rights he should have been their leader, should have taken them under his protection. That they were dangerous now was half his own fault and half circumstance. They didn't deserve to die for his mistakes.

“Don't move,” Derek called, alpha ringing in his voice. Stiles was duly impressed with Derek's ability to sound commanding while going commando – or being completely naked, whatever. Nudity was probably a werewolf thing, one that made sense if parts of your family could shift into an animal at the drop of a hat. Stiles could roll with that.

The strays had the good sense to cower and show their vulnerable parts, faced with two alphas who had an axe to grind. It was this more than anything else that convinced Stiles that something non-lethal had to be done. He was going to say as much when the snick of an arrow going past his head complicated the negotiations.

Hunters. Of course there were hunters.

Stiles twisted around, backing into Derek so they covered each others' blind spots. The sweet scent of blood assaulted his nose and he realized that the arrow had found a target after all. Derek was bleeding. There was a hint of wolfsbane in the scent, a bad combination and a pretty good sign that they were going to die.

“We're going to die,” Stiles pressed out between sharp, inhuman teeth. His ability to talk while in this form was severely limited and he hated the effort it took to spit the sarcasm out over the very earnest rage under his skin.

Derek huffed. “We're not going to die.” He sounded vaguely offended, but Stiles heard the undercurrent of pain.

They retreated. It wasn't heroic or good, but it was what they had. The hunters kept coming, the strays had fled at the first sign of trouble, and no one seemed to care that Derek and Stiles were clearly in their own territory, doing nothing wrong whatsoever. Hunters were assholes. Chris Argent wasn't with them, which was probably both reason and excuse for their shitty interpretation of the truce.

“You know,” Stiles said, “this is officially the worst date ever.”

He'd never heard a wolf laugh before, but Derek's yapping, panting breaths couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

+

Allison wasn't Derek’s favorite by any means, but he'd come to accept her in the pack, not just for Scott but for her own merits. She was smart, compassionate and loyal to a fault. Her love for Scott was as true as Scott's love for her, Derek knew that, had come to trust it in ways he hadn't been able to trust his own heart.

But sometimes Allison scared the shit out of him. When she was truly angry, fury itching under her skin, Allison didn't get loud or emotional, didn't explode with it like Scott would. She grew cold and sarcastic, reminding him of Kate more than he'd like.

“I talked to my dad,” she said, her voice like an icy wasteland. Derek forced himself not to shiver and Stiles gave him a confused once-over. He'd noticed, of course he had.

“What did he have to say for himself?”

Allison dropped onto the couch, sprawling next to Scott, her body making a statement for her. “Basically we're all fucked. He's not going to stop his people from patrolling the woods at night and they'll shoot at anything that looks dangerous. He says to tell you that since you can't control your own kind, the hunters will do it for you.”

Derek's jaw tightened and his fists clenched. This was just short of a declaration of war. It was, essentially, a curfew enforced at the point of a gun. “How much do they know?”

She sighed, some of the anger leaving her – she looked less like Kate now and Derek felt stupidly relieved. “They assume it's a couple of omegas, stray wolves. They don't know that they've been here before.”

Scott frowned at his girlfriend, worry evident in his eyes. “We could just let the hunters take care of them.” He didn't sound convinced, but now the sentiment was out there. It would be so easy. Turning over responsibility to someone else, let someone else take charge and make all the decisions. Derek would never quite get over that urge to submit to _someone_ , no matter that his sister was dead, but he also knew that it wouldn't work. He was the alpha of his pack and he couldn't afford to waffle.

“No,” Derek said, “we're going to find them first and there will be justice.”

+

Stiles was half-way through Gilneas with his newly created worgen hunter when he realized what he was doing. The avatar even looked a bit like Derek, in both forms. Hell, in a fit of irony, he'd given him three little puppies as pets. Stiles stared at his game and questioned his life choices, just for a moment. How had this happened? One day he'd been a successful raider, a nerd with a crush on glorious queen Lydia Martin, academically in good standing with some behavioral issues, but generally a fairly normal teenager. Now he made ironic characters without noticing and pondered the morality of werewolf politics while fretting about whether or not someone was going to skin him for his fur coat in the next day or so.

Also, he had a fur coat now. A good coat, too, at least the parts of it he'd been able to see, all silky and gleaming.

Was it weird to text Derek and ask about his injury sustained in the line of duty? He wasn’t worried, not even a little - wolfsbane poisoning had become a bit of an anti-climax over the course of the past few months - but he wanted to check on Derek anyway. Stupid fucking crushes, man.

“Yo, Stiles?” his dad called, dragging him out of his head and back to reality.

“I'm up here, dad.”

He heard the thumping of his father's steps, the slightly irregular beating of his heart, the panting breaths. Stiles grinned, aware that he could now pretty accurately monitor his dad's health, if he felt like it. Sweet.

“Hey kiddo,” his dad said. “You know how you're not supposed to get involved with the police investigations that may or may not be in full swing right now?”

Stiles grinned. “I'm aware, dad.”

“So I can't tell you that we got a match on the fingerprints found at the scene with the deer. And I absolutely cannot tell you that the gentlemen who gutted that animal are currently lodging at the Lighthouse Inn. They weren't there when my deputies tried to pick them up, but they're paid through the week.”

Nodding, Stiles twisted around in his swivel chair. “If you'd said anything, I would keep it under advisement.”

“Good,” his dad said, nodding to himself. “Good. Just make sure that if you happen to get into any kind of hypothetical situation where you may need some assistance in the near future, I've got a couple of guys down at the station who I trust to keep a secret.”

Stiles grinned, nodded and watched as his dad turned away. Then he thought of something. “Dad, hey, wait.” His dad looked back. “I just wanted to say... thanks. Thank you. For everything.”

“Stiles-”

He grinned. “I know, I know. We have this whole gruff, manly thing going on where we're all manly and gruff and don't talk about our feelings.”

“Come here, kid,” his dad said as he tugged Stiles into a hug. “This is what parents are for, you know.”

“Oh, I didn't think this was part of the deal, the- the supernatural creatures and all that.” Stiles pushed himself away, needing to see his dad's expression. He felt like the answer to the unasked question mattered more than he could say.

His dad smiled. “Doesn't matter to me if you're furry on the outside, as long as you're not a monster where it matters. We can't always do the right thing. Sometimes there isn't a right thing. All I need to know is that you'll _try_.”

“Dad-”

“And before I forget, when whatever is going on right now is over? You're inviting your friends for dinner, no exceptions.”

That wasn't an invitation, that was an order. Stiles could only nod and wonder when his dad had grown so devious. “Right, sure. Pack dinner at the Stilinski household. It will be awesome, because I enjoy torture.”

His dad was already on the way out, but at that last bit he laughed. “Son, I love you, no matter what sort of things you enjoy in private. I just don't need to know the details.”

Stiles threw a pen after him. Then he took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. He had a plan to accelerate.

+

Danny was irritated, his quiet judgieness coming through loud and clear, even over the phone. Stiles had the unique talent of making Danny mad enough to sigh and roll his eyes and occasionally even huff out a few choice curses. It was awesome. “You can’t be serious.”

“Serious like a rash on your _dick_.”

Danny sighed. “All right, yeah. I'll do it. And don't think I don't know that you're trying to keep the breakable people out of the fight.”

Stiles coughed. “Who, me? No, no. You've got it all wrong.”

“Sure. Whatever. I'll pick Allison up in half an hour. You better have told her about it by then, because I am not explaining your mad schemes to a woman with a crossbow.”

And thus began Stiles’ mad backup plan, just in case showing up and having a nice chat just wasn’t enough to solve this problem.

+

For a moment, Derek considered not picking up. Ignoring a problem until it went away had never, ever worked out for them, but it could be a first. It could be their lucky day.

Yeah, right.

“What is it, Stiles?” he snapped into the phone. It wasn't that he was angry so much as he really wanted to be able to spend at least half an hour in a day not thinking about Stiles. He'd gotten about five minutes into his half hour when the phone rang.

“Whoa, who pissed in your dinner, buddy?”

Derek breathed deeply and counted to five in his head. “Would you kindly get to the point, Stiles?”

Stiles made a half-choked sound that was probably him trying really hard not to laugh. Derek tried really hard not to find it endearing. “Okay, no, I can't deal with you being polite. That's just wrong, you know it is.”

“Stiles, I will tear your arms out and make myself a hat if you don't-”

Stiles laughed. “See, that's what I'm talking about! A little healthy aggression. Oh, by the way, I meant to ask at the time, but it was all very hectic. Do limbs actually grow back or is it a Black Knight kind of deal?”

“The point, Stiles.”

“Right, right. I know where to find our friends.”

Derek tensed, fingers curling around his phone hard enough to make the plastic creak. “The wolves.”

He could almost hear Stiles roll his eyes. “Oh my god, no, the yetis. Of course I mean the wolves.”

“Where?”

“No, I'm not letting you do your heroic half-cocked bullshit. Come pick me up and we'll talk on the way.”

Derek knew he was going to regret this; he knew nothing that started with Stiles being cagey and sarcastic could end well. It was like inviting the storm into his home by opening all the doors and windows.

+

The supplies Stiles had brought should last them both through a typical night of what TV had taught Stiles was a stakeout – which meant they were supposed to spend most of it having awkward conversation and nothing would happen until the very worst moment. Then there would be a lot of running.

“When I was a kid, I really thought this is what I'd be doing with my life,” Stiles said after a few agonizing moments of silence. He wistfully stared at the bag of chips and decided that it was too soon. The snacks had to last for the night.

Derek didn't say anything. He was watching the motel parking lot like a good little detective.

Stiles turned slightly to watch Derek instead. It wasn't _exactly_ taunting himself with all the things he couldn't have, but it probably was a close cousin. A sexy cousin, like Miguel. Heh. Sometimes when Danny was really mad at Stiles, he'd bring up the t-shirt incident and then the both of them usually decided to let the argument rest and get shit done. Because half-naked Derek was totally a motivator. “I always wanted to be a cop, except for that time I was really into figure skating. It was my Sailor Moon phase, I got over it.”

Derek's jaw twitched. Victory!

“My dad thinks I'd be wasting my talents though. He wants me to go to college, make something more of myself.”

Derek cast a quick glance sideways. “You could do anything you want.”

Stiles grinned. “Yeah, well, I want to be a cop. Maybe I'll get a criminal justice degree or forensic psych, something useful.”

He ached to ask the question on the tip of his tongue – what, if anything, had Derek always dreamed of being, before the fire? What ambitions had died in Kate Argent's fist? But if Stiles had learned anything in the past few months of being acquainted and possibly friends with Derek Hale, it was that asking questions only led to a grumpier and still silent werewolf.

Silence. It was something Derek did well, something that seemed to follow him around like a cloud of mute little birds. Their nonexistent cries were Derek's battle hymn. Stiles got lost in silence. He talked a lot, of course he did. Because silence harbored all his demons. When Stiles was silent, he was thinking about all the mistakes he'd made, all the bad things he'd been responsible for in his life. It was a surprisingly long list.

“I don't know,” Derek said at last, possibly because he knew how not speaking was affecting Stiles and he was nothing if not a martyr. “I didn't have any plans before. I just wanted to get through high school, maybe meet somebody. Be a good wolf.”

Stiles looked away from the pain on Derek's face. People, pack members included, had commented on Derek's lack of facial expression, but Stiles knew better. It was easy to read Derek if you knew what to look for. “Did you go to school in New York?”

“Laura made me take some classes. I didn't really have any opinions on anything.”

“Huh,” Stiles said. “So now you're just an independently wealthy vagabond? A trust fund puppy? That's kind of cool, actually.”

Derek sighed. “I like this,” he gestured at the snacks covering the dashboard, and for an insane moment Stiles wanted to say catering? “Maybe not police, but something else. Investigating.”

Stiles laughed. “I hear that a penchant for stalking is a total asset for a private detective. You already have the noir thing going for you. It could work.”

And if that wasn't a real smile, Stiles name wasn't Stiles. Well. It totally was a real smile either way. They drifted into easier territory after that, movies they were looking forward to - _“can you believe it's been two years since the Star Trek reboot?”_ \- and games Derek absolutely needed to try - _“oh no, don't give me that WoW is for losers crap, Mr. Guild-Wars-Is-The-Best-MMO, I have seen your desktop.”_ \- and all the fun that could be had without some supernatural crisis. They could start a book club.

Stiles was rating choices for books they could reasonably expect the entire pack to read when a car pulled into the lot. It was a dark color, not quite black but indistinguishable under the orange street lights. Derek perked up like a hunting dog catching the trail of some nice, juicy venison. The man getting out of the passenger side looked sharply familiar, even from that distance. He'd only ever seen them as wolves, but something sparked recognition in him.

“It's them.”

Derek was out the door before Stiles could finish speaking. Fuck. He fumbled for his phone to text Danny the address and then he looked up, watching Derek with his game face on. Something bugged him, something at the back of his mind, and he sent the rest of the pack his S.O.S. Another three cars squealed into the lot, confirming his worst fears. This was some kind of trap, or a confluence of unfortunate events.

He hit speed dial for his dad's cell.

Before his dad could get a word out, Stiles hissed into the receiver. “Dad, remember what we talked about? I'm at the motel. If you come, do not come alone, and make sure you're armed and armored.”

“Stiles, what-”

But Stiles didn't have time, he couldn't explain. He ended the call and stumbled out of the jeep. He braced himself against the hood of his baby and cracked his neck, letting the wolf come to the surface. He'd need every part of himself for this.

+

Derek closed in on the wolves, hoping that Stiles was smart enough to run if the situation went sour. It was a vain hope, of course, but he had to make the effort. The two men tensed, frozen in their steps, as they felt his approach and Derek was darkly satisfied with the strength of their reaction. The power of an alpha depended largely on the state of mind of the lesser wolves he tried to control. That was why Peter had never been able to turn Scott to his side, the kid was solidly stubborn about his loyalties. But these wolves were flighty, uncontrolled, and Derek had managed to catch them by surprise.

“Stay,” he said, allowing the alpha into his voice, giving it unnatural depth. They cowered, not quite pressing their bellies to the ground but close enough not to make a difference. Faced with their submission, Derek was suddenly unsure. If they'd fought or otherwise resisted, he could have justified any number of things, but like this they reminded him of frightened prey. They were hardly cunning masterminds, not like Peter, who had needed killing for everyone else's protection.

“You're in Hale territory,” he said, a shiver running through him at the words, half pleasant and half wistful. “We let you leave once, what is your business here now?”

The wolves whimpered, baring their throats and looking at him with wide, frightened eyes. The fear in them wasn't normal, not like the respect due an alpha at all. They were wild with it, feral. Derek roared, asserting a dominance he didn't particularly feel at the moment. Something was wrong, something was-

The squeal of tires made him look up. Three large cars barreled into the parking lot at too high a speed, heading directly for him. It was a trap. Insanely, he thought of Star Wars and how Stiles would think it was funny, if they all got out of this alive. The cars decelerated, burned rubber marking their path behind them. Derek refused to show weakness by ducking out of the way.

He glanced at the strays, flexing his fingers to keep them contained. They looked up at him, frozen between their instinct to run and their instinct to lash out at a threat. “Do not move,” he pressed out, lips catching on his canines. The two wolves nodded weakly, submitting to his will.

Hunters spilled from their vehicles, armed to the teeth and faces like murder. Argent was in charge, a small blessing in this clusterfuck of a situation. Fanning around him, they trained their weapons at center mass, fingers on sensitive triggers.

“Derek,” Argent said, “what a surprise to meet you here.” He didn't sound surprised.

Derek tried for a cocky smile. “Argent. What can I do for you?”

Before anyone could answer, Stiles stumbled into the tableau, limbs flailing, with the wolf marking his features. Derek was half grateful for the interruption, tension broken in that unique way Stiles had, but the more important part of him was furious.

“Stiles, what the hell?”

Stiles cocked his head. “Did you honestly think that I was going to wait in the car like a good little puppy?”

The people around them were momentarily unfocused, taken aback by the interruption, and Stiles came to a halt about a foot away from Derek. They were close enough that Derek could see the shifty look in Stiles' eyes. He'd done something, something he didn't want Derek to know.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Argent said between clenched teeth. This was probably not part of his plan either. In contrast with the rest of his bloodthirsty family. Chris didn't actually relish killing teenagers and other innocents. “Your bravery is very touching, but I'm going to ask you to step aside so we can deal with this like adults.” Derek noticed that the hunter wasn't offering the same out to him and if that was the deal for Stiles' life he'd take it.

But Stiles was having none of it, whirling around to face the hunters. “Actually, those wolves are my business. I am supposed to be their alpha.” The muzzles of the guns that had dropped slightly came back up with a vengeance. Stiles had just been upgraded from nuisance to threat.

Derek was going to hold him back by the shoulder, defuse the tension a little, but somehow he ended up grabbing Stiles' hand instead. He took a step forward, squaring his shoulders, standing with the boy who would have been his mate. It wasn't a conscious choice and he could feel the confusion coming from Stiles in waves, but it felt like the right thing to do. He squeezed Stiles' hand for reassurance.

Argent had a pained look on his face, where the murderous tradition of his people fought a war with his natural inclination to be a half-decent human being. “Look, kid, you don't know what you're doing here. I bet Derek hasn't told you everything, has he?”

Derek tensed. Half the things he should have told his pack over the last few months he never learned in the first place. He was essentially stumbling around in the dark, half-blind with grief and denial. Whatever Argent knew had to be good enough to use as a weapon. Stiles squeezed Derek's hand, grounding him in the moment.

“I know enough,” Stiles said, echoing Derek's assurance to Argent only a few days prior. “I know that I won't let you kill these wolves simply because they're wolves.”

Argent laughed harshly, coughing out the sound like it was stuck in his throat. “And how much are you willing to give up for them?”

Stiles threw a glance at the cowering wolves, pathetic men whose human side was as mangy as their wolf side, men for whom he had a responsibility beyond even that of blood. Pack was pack and as a newly turned alpha, as a new wolf in general, Stiles had to feel the instinct like the drums of war under his skin.

“I'll do what I have to not to turn into a monster like your kind,” Stiles barked out. His whole body was one long, trembling line of barely contained rage.

“Funny,” Argent said, not amused at all. “But it won't be funny when you break up your precious pack, when you have to leave Beacon Hills and make yourself a target.”

Argent wasn't lying, he truly believed that this would tear them apart. Derek growled low in his throat, feeling out of his depth in ways he hadn't since those early days after Peter's death. “They're my responsibility now,” Derek said and he believed it.

“Oh, but they're really not, are they? They can never be yours, not as long as Stiles is part of your pack.”

And that was... possible. Derek had never heard of a situation like theirs, alpha mates with preexisting packs merging the two, and even if that was something with precedent, there was the simple matter of them not actually being mates. They'd managed to trick their own instincts, but they could never sustain a pack split down the middle like that. The rogue wolves could never accept Derek with their true alpha right there and Derek could never challenge Stiles for them without risking Stiles' life.

For a wild, uncomfortable moment, Derek entertained the thought of just stepping aside. It's what Argent wanted and it would ultimately be the easiest solution, but-

“Oh my god, it's always the same with you people.” Stiles sounded exasperated, but some of the tension had fled his body. He looked like an alpha, someone truly in charge of himself and people around him. Derek felt a moment of pride and love so strong, it took all his willpower not to just sweep Stiles into his arms and kiss him breathless. “Seriously, are you even listening to yourself? Your best argument is that my life would be easier if they were dead. If that's what your Code boils down to, I think you need to reevaluate the choices you've made.”

Argent didn't acknowledge Stiles' little tirade. The hunters were still at attention, wary and nervous to the point where this tentative equilibrium could be broken by a strong wind. Unfortunately, the strays didn't know Stiles, they didn't know Derek. They had no understanding of how far both alphas would go to save them and they'd been running for a long time. That kind of life left traces in a man, deep gouges that could not be brushed aside by pretty words.

They ran.

The wolves broke under the weight of the tense silence and scampered backwards, yelping like abused dogs. The hunters caught the movement and reacted on instinct, pulling their triggers without so much as a 'fire at will'. Argent looked briefly shocked in the glimpse Derek caught as he dragged Stiles out of the way of the heavy gunfire. The air smelled like smoke and wolfsbane. Somewhat safely crouched behind a wide concrete pillar, Derek assessed their situation. The hunters had shot their initial volley and began to spread out, searching. The wolves were nowhere in sight.

“That could have gone better,” Stiles said as a grin took over his face. He... he knew something, or had put something in motion, something he'd kept from Derek.

“Stiles, what-”

Stiles' eyes snapped to Derek's and he couldn't quite read the expression. “Can you trust me that this will all work out? I don't think we have time for me to explain right now, but can you trust me?”

The question sent slivers of ice down his spine, but the answer was simple. He nodded.

“Good, because what we need right now is to distract those hunters and keep the stupid puppies from being riddled with bullet holes. You in?”

Derek trusted Stiles, not just with his life, but with small things like knowing when to let him in on a plan and how he liked his morning coffee. He'd somehow let this kid through all his defenses and he'd go to the ends of the earth for him. It was a sobering, slightly scary thought, but it also filled him with a warmth that reminded him of Laura and his parents and pack.

“I'm in,” he said, and rolled out of their cover.

+

Stiles wasn't going for heroics. He slipped from one pillar to the next, ducking out of the way as soon as he caught sight of a hunter or the muzzle of a gun. All he needed was a little more time. The strays were still close, huddled terrified in some nook or corner Stiles couldn't see, but he knew they were there. He could feel them under his skin.

He pounced on a hunter's back and darted away as soon as the guy hit the ground. Reinforcements were on their way, both of the mundane and the wolfy kind, and all he had to do was to keep the hunters occupied until they arrived.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw flashes of Derek, bullet-fast and fluid like the shadows he used for cover. Stiles was struck by how beautiful Derek was. He'd never had a thing for the fangs and the claws before, but the graceful way Derek combined animal and human was absolutely, stunningly gorgeous.

“So unfair,” Stiles muttered to himself as he stumbled through the dark. “How am I supposed to get over _that_?”

When Stiles had let himself think about this confrontation in the last few days he'd always imagined it as some kind of medieval battle, all ordered lines and war cries, or maybe like the showdown at high noon in a particularly melodramatic western, fraught with tension and a single, beautiful shot that ended it all. Instead it was like a Saturday morning cartoon, a cat and mouse game that looked like fun until you were in it.

A bullet nicked his arm as he dashed madly from one end of the parking lot to the next and somewhat gracelessly scrambled up to the roof of the motel. He wondered briefly if there were any residents – the empty lot suggested no, but one could never tell and this would be harder to explain than a few animal maulings. His dad was probably going to kill him, if they survived.

From the roof he had a great view of nothing much at all. The hunters were spread out, lying low, waiting for an idiot like him to walk right through their cross-hairs. His arm hurt enough that he must have been hit by one of the more potent wolfsbane bullets and that was going to be a problem later, but right now he needed to figure out what to do. Before he got to a scenario that didn't end in bloodshed, a claw tapped his shoulder.

“Hey buddy,” Scott said mildly, grinning despite the wolf face thing he had going. Stiles probably didn't look much better.

“I could kiss you. Are the others here?” Scott pointed to the opposite roof and indeed, there were Jackson and Lydia, crouched low and wolfed out, looking feral and unearthly. Suddenly, Stiles night was looking perky again. “Good, great! Just make sure not to get hit by any bullets, these guys came prepared for war.”

Scott frowned, probably because he'd caught the scent of blood and the hint of wolfsbane infection. Stiles could feel the spidery black burn creeping under his skin, but it was manageable for now. “Where's Derek?”

“Rocking the guerrilla style urban battle, probably.”

“And the...” Scott made a gesture that looked a bit like the shadow puppet of a wolf with drooping ears. Stiles chuckled.

“I have no idea, but I'm going to find them. Cover me?”

Scott gave him a bright, ridiculous smile. “Always.”

They were off again, Scott drawing fire with the fancy acrobatics he liked so much, the show-off. Stiles was being sneaky, for once, because he needed to not get shot again if this was going to end without people dying. He had faith in his friends, but they were a blood-thirsty bunch and vengeance for a dead pack mate was a heady thing. He'd fly off the handle, too, if it came to that. So no dying, no heroics. Well. Few heroics.

He had one freaking big heroic moment up his sleeve, but it sort of depended on him finding the wolves they were here to save.

The fight was still going strong, though the frequency of gunfire had diminished. The hunters were being smarter the more time passed, probably figuring that they were minutes away from getting the police involved. Stiles was glad he'd called his dad to prepare him, making sure that the responding force would all be on the pack's side when it came to that. Sometimes nepotism was a good thing.

Sirens in the distance gave Stiles a definite deadline, no pun intended. He hid himself behind a pillar and closed his eyes, trying to feel out the connection he had to his two wayward betas. It wouldn't have worked for tracking them anywhere further away than maybe a hundred yards, but now he could feel the distinct imprint of their presences somewhere left of him. He sighed and resigned himself to playing hide and seek while bullets were flying past his ears.

At least his pack had involved the hunters in a game of whack-a-wolf and they were winning. The hunters hadn't expected to fight more than one solitary alpha, a mistake that might just save them all. Stiles turned left, then right, following the thin red line that led straight to the rogue wolves. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he whispered to himself.

By rights, it shouldn't have worked, but from one breath to the next, they were suddenly there right in front of him, as terrified as mice in the crazy old cat lady's house. “Wait,” he yelled, holding out his hands palms up. “Stay where you are. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry, okay. I'm really sorry, but you need to listen to me now.”

The wolves whimpered, baring their throats almost as if they expected him to punish them. Stiles breathed deeply, in and out and in again, before he stepped into their space and touched them lightly with his fingertips. It was enough to restore some of their swagger, but not enough to bind them to him completely. Because that was so not part of the plan.

“Okay, right. You two, follow me, let's get this party started.”

The party in question was like one of those ancient Rome things where you could never quite be sure if you were walking into an orgy or a gladiator match to the death. Lydia had one of the hunter's down on his back, exquisite heel on his throat, while Jackson clung to another like a security blanket's nightmare-revenge. Chris and two of his men had guns on Scott and Derek, spaced out in a triangle of doom and twitchy fingers.

“What did I miss?” Stiles asked with false cheer, bravado coming from a deep, dark place that wanted to rip the hunters to shreds. They were threatening _his pack_.

When Derek turned to look at Stiles, the expression on his face was part murder, part resignation. Stiles shrugged and smiled a little, hoping to communicate trust me with his eyes, because he couldn't afford to do more than that. Argent was bringing around his gun to point it directly at Stiles' head.

“You have some nerve, kid. Too bad you're wasting your talents on these animals.”

Stiles could feel the weight of his own transformation on his skin, knew that he looked as animal as the rest of them. He grinned, cocked his head and exaggerated the growl in his voice. “You're just jealous that you didn't get to me before they did, aren't you?”

“I just don't like to see so much wasted potential. It's a shame.”

Stiles choked down the hysterical laughter that wanted to escape from his throat, because really, he'd never been this fucking popular when he was perfectly ordinarily human. The sirens he'd heard earlier were close enough now to catch the hunters' attention and Stiles relaxed despite the added danger. He didn't want his dad or the deputies to get in between claws and assault rifles, but the backup was nice. Knowing that there were people who'd stand with them – it was nice.

“You might want to put those guns down,” Stiles said, just as the squad cars pulled up and a good dozen uniformed angels spilled out to cover the area.

“Son,” the Sheriff said with a nod.

“Dad, hey, good of you to come.” He shifted back to fully human and saw the officers twitch a little. He grinned. “Things were getting a little hairy there for a while.”

His dad grimaced. “Yeah, I can see that.”

Clapping his hands together, Stiles stepped into the center of the whole mess, guns on him from all sides, Derek close enough to touch. It felt like a victory already and he allowed himself to breathe without fear. The fingers of his left hand sent the prepared text message for the last part of his spectacularly awful plan. They'd almost won and the relief of it made him excited, a little over-eager.

“Alright! How's everyone doing right now? Guns a little heavy? You know you can put them down, nothing bad's going to happen. There's police here and everything.”

The hunters didn't move, not so much as an involuntary muscle spasm. Well then. “Looks like we're at a little bit of an impasse, if you know what I mean.”

Argent rolled his eyes, exasperated, but maybe no longer quite so murderous. “What do you think you can do here, huh? There's no way out.”

Stiles closed his eyes, breathing deeply as a bit of a distraction – he was concentrating on the sound of gravel under the Camaro's tires, the distinct beat of three hearts, all familiar, coming their way. “See, that's where you're wrong, where you're all wrong. Sometimes you've got to think outside the box.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that everyone was so focused on what I could or couldn't do that no one thought to look elsewhere and actually ask for some help. So I did.”

Derek had come up beside him. “What did you do, Stiles?” he asked, not unkindly.

“I used my freaking phone, joker. Called in the cavalry.” He glanced at his dad. “The other cavalry.”

He felt the presence first, the foreign, alien power pressing down on his mind and crawling up his spine. He hadn't thought it would be like this, it hadn't been like this with Derek, not even at their worst. The slick, oily burn made him want to run, to fight, to raise himself up and howl at the moon.

Derek's eyes widened. “Stiles, what-”

“Oh pup, you have made quite the mess, haven't you?”

Helen walked carefully, every step something calculated, difficult, as if her bones were made of glass, but that only served to underscore the power radiating from her. Allison and Danny were walking at her sides, discreetly offering their support if she needed it. Stiles only remembered her vaguely from back when she passed through Beacon Hills on a mission to find death. She'd found something else instead and now she was going to be their salvation.

“Alpha,” Stiles said, baring his throat just enough for respect. “It's good to see you.”

She laughed as she came to stand in front of him, so tiny and worn, yet so full of energy. “You invited me, pup, and who can resist something like that? I haven't seen a mess this fucked up in thirty seven years, not since some hunter from Kansas thought he could rid the earth of our existence. Suffice it to say, my dear, that he was wrong.”

Stiles grinned. “I wasn't going to ask.”

“No,” she said, looking him up and down, “you wouldn't. Because you're the smart one in this little outfit.”

Derek shifted his stance closer to him, but didn't speak. He was deferring this entire thing to Stiles' judgment and that more than anything felt like validation. Derek really did trust him, with the pack, with everything that mattered. It was a warm, fuzzy thought Stiles locked away to look at later, once they were home free.

“Can you do it here, or do you need anything?”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Boy, if I can no longer claim a couple of omegas without assistance you may as well dig me a grave and put a bullet between my eyes.”

Off to the side, Chris Argent nearly choked on the inadvisable comeback, but managed to contain himself to a smirk and a cough. Stiles didn't bother glaring at the man – Helen needed no teenager to fight her battles, not even old and frail as she was these days. She could still tear a man's throat with a single swipe of her claws.

Stiles stepped aside to let her through and almost collided with Derek, who put a hand out to steady him. They watched as Helen approached the cowering wolves, a feral snarl on her face that transformed her from everyone's favorite granny into the big bad wolf. There wasn't anything like a ritual, she simply stood over them and roared, the primal alpha call that reverberated through the soul of every wolf. She touched the strays then, her palms covering the tops of their heads like a benediction.

“I am your alpha,” she said. Stiles felt the words under his skin, in his bones. For a crazy moment he wanted to follow her, to submit, and he could taste the echo of it in every other wolf, even Derek. Helen could have them all, probably, if she were crazy enough to want them.

Glancing at his dad, Stiles performed a complicated shrug/nod gesture that hopefully communicated that everything was fine, just your usual weirdo wolf stuff. He moved closer to the new pack in their midst, Derek at his side, and then they howled.

Their voices rose into the night, triumph and pack.

+

Derek had offered Helen the house to stay the night, but the new pack was somewhat fragile and she wouldn't chance to let them settle in a place that wasn't theirs. Danny and Jackson volunteered to take them to the airport and Allison left with her dad and Lydia. It was just them again, after that. The Sheriff gave them a nod and rounded up his people, waiting long enough to see the rest of the hunters crawl into their nondescript SUVs.

“So,” Stiles said. “I should apologize for not letting you in on the plan, probably.” He looked a little pale in the moonlight.

Derek sighed. He had to stop himself from reaching out and wrapping Stiles into a hug. He was aching for the connection he knew they could have, if only. Yeah. “It's okay, it worked out alright in the end.”

Stiles nodded to himself, the movement oddly sluggish, causing Derek's stomach to twist with worry. “I know, right? We did good. It's just, next time, we're totally doing this shit together, because I really can't... uh...”

And that's when his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed like a puppet without its strings. Derek caught him before he could hit the ground, catching the hint of wolfsbane poisoning in his scent. Stiles' heart was beating steadily, if a little too fast, so Derek had enough free capacity between worry and anger, to roll his eyes at the universe for never giving them a fucking a break.

+

Waking up in his room with only hazy memories of the night before was becoming a habit Stiles wasn't fond of, but then it could always be so much worse. He could be waking up in dumpsters or seedy back alleys. He grinned to himself and stretched leisurely, knowing that the crisis was over, there was nothing to worry about and no one to save. He could do anything he wanted today.

His phone beeped and he noted the message from Danny, telling him his wayward wolves were off to meet the wizard. Or rather off with the witch. Not that Stiles would ever dare to say anything like that out loud, because Helen would have his head. He breathed a sigh of relief that his plan had worked and no one was dead or maimed.

“Good job, Stilinski. Now for the next trick.” The next trick being, of course, to get used to a normal ass life as an alpha werewolf, trying to get over his newest unrequited crush and keeping up his GPA. But before that, he totally deserved an extended weekend of doing nothing but playing games and eating terrible food and taking very infrequent showers. Oh yeah, that was the _life_.

Except, of course, suddenly everyone seemed really interested in his health – _fine, Scott, god! It was just a flesh wound!_ \- and his emotional stability. Lydia actually called him twice that day, asking how he was, how he felt now that the strays were gone, if she could do anything for him. And okay, so that? That was pretty cool, if a couple months too late. What his six-months younger self wouldn't have given for Lydia's concern, her obvious affection. Now it was just... nice. Really nice.

It was less nice to be dragged out of the house by Jackson, because even though Stiles was technically his superior now he really hadn't gotten the grasp of ordering him and the others around. Not any more than usual anyway, and this little Stiles-napping looked a lot like those times when Derek made the pack bring their human members to safety before shit went down.

“This is an intervention,” Scott intoned somewhat dubiously as they arrived outside the ice cream place. He was holding a cardboard sign.

Stiles blinked three times in quick succession. “Okay.” The sign was still there. There was glitter on it. Jackson had positioned himself behind and to the right of Scott, scowling with his arms crossed, like he couldn't imagine a worse place to be.

When Stiles didn't say anything else, Scott looked to Jackson. “What now? He's usually doing all the talking!”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “ _He_ is standing right here. And by the way, I'm pretty sure that neither of you came up with this so whatever your girlfriends must be thinking, they probably gave you instructions.” He sat down in one of the wicker chairs and tapped absently on the table. “I can wait.”

Jackson and Scott shared a very complicated look, one of those that was basically a silent conversation, except that they seemed to be speaking two different languages. At the end of it Scott looked faintly horrified and Jackson was blushing. Stiles cleared his throat. “So?”

Scott squirmed. “Okay, so, we know you said not to talk to you about what happened with Derek. And we don't want to! No jokes or anything, right Jackson?” Jackson nodded. “But we've noticed that you've been kind of weird lately.”

“You're pining,” Jackson bit out.

Stiles gaped at them, trying to find words. “I'm not _pining_ , that's not- we agreed to forget about it, alright. That's what I'm doing. Forgetting about it. I don't even know what you're talking about.”

Scott wrung his hands. “It's not just you, okay. Maybe if you two just talked it out, like that time I told Allison I loved her-”

Stiles jumped lightning fast and put a hand on Scott's mouth to shut him up. They were nose to nose. Stiles felt a bit crazy, a little hysterical. “I'm not in love with Derek,” he said, voice harsh and low. There was the distinct note of alpha underneath and both boys swallowed, nodded, smelling like fear.

“I'm going to let you go now and then we'll all get ice cream. And after that the two of you will come to my house and play xbox and we forget this ridiculous conversation ever happened.” He glanced over at Jackson. “Deal?”

They both couldn't agree fast enough but the damage was done. Stiles kept repeating it over and over in his head. _It's not just you, okay._

+

Derek expected an ambush because he wasn't stupid and his pack had been anxious all day. They'd been hovering around the house after school because he told them in no uncertain terms to leave Stiles alone, which lasted about an hour, probably. Scott had disappeared not long after Lydia had whispered something in his ear.

Now it was just Allison, who stood a little lost on his front porch with her hands buried in the baggy shirt she was wearing – probably one of Scott's, but it was hard to tell. They smelled like each other all the time anyway.

“I'm not in the mood,” he said as he passed her on his way to the car. He needed to clean out the interior, it still smelled like the new pack and made the hair on his neck stand up. It had nothing to do with the worry gnawing at his insides or the urge to climb through Stiles' window and curl up with him. Because that was really hard to justify as a friendly gesture.

“Yes, uh, we've noticed that. About you. The last few days, you've been kind of on edge.”

Derek sighed, staring at his leather seats. “There were rogue wolves and hunters trying to kill us. The week wasn't exactly a vacation.”

Allison shifted her stance. She was nervous, he didn't need to look at her to know that. “We just think that you're maybe making a mistake.”

Clenching his jaw, Derek breathed deep and tried not to lose his very human temper. This wasn't a wolf thing, this was a nosy teenager thing. “Is this about Stiles?”

She came closer, almost close enough to touch. He kept his back to her despite the tingling at the base of his spine. She smelled like pack and Scott, but there was the hint of gun oil underneath. She still reminded him of Kate sometimes; even the softer parts of her would always make him a little uncomfortable. “He makes you happy. We just don't understand why you're pushing him away. Is it the mating thing? Aren't there any ways around it?”

And that was both the right and the wrong question. He braced himself on the roof of the Camaro, his head hanging low. “The bond can't be forced,” he said, distaste at the very idea pulsing through his body. “It can't be taken, it has to be given.” Allison remained silent but placed a hand on his shoulder, carefully and so very, very light. Derek tensed under the weight of it, but did not shake her off. “The bond between two alphas is for _life_. Stiles is sixteen years old, he doesn't know what he wants yet.”

“But you do,” she said. It was not a question.

Derek closed his eyes against the sudden flash of everything that Stiles was to him. Pain and love and above all _potential_. “I only want him to be happy. Not just now, but in ten years, in twenty.”

“So the bond is forever, except when it's not? It can't be forced, except when it can?”

Derek stilled. “What?”

Allison took her hand away and Derek had to turn, he couldn't have this conversation while looking at his car. She looked... amused. A little sarcastic, much like Kate had those few months ago, taunting him with his own stupidity.

But there was a warmth there that Kate never had, and when Allison smiled, it made all the difference in the world. “You said yourself that you don't really know how it works, right? If it's a choice now, why wouldn't it be a choice in twenty years, or when you're both old and toothless?”

Blinking, Derek tried to follow her train of thought, but hope was burning somewhere in his chest and it hurt. “It's not like that. He’ll be tied to me forever, and then he’ll realize what a mistake-”

He cut himself off the moment he saw the truth dawn on Allison's face. “Oh, Derek.” He shuddered, unwilling to admit that very worst of secrets: that he was terrified they would all one day recognize that he wasn't worth their love or loyalty. It was a truth buried so deep he barely acknowledged it to himself most of the time. And Stiles would one day wake up and know that he was chained to Derek like some kind of twisted Belle to her beast.

“Don't say it,” he warned her, but Allison shook her head slowly.

“I won't. I don’t know exactly what you’re afraid of, but it’s not true. Just- just talk to him, please.”

And with that, she left him trembling and scared and bared to the bone. The car would have to wait.

+

Danny was early for their no doubt disastrous pack family dinner at the Stilinski household. Way early, like, the sun was high in the sky and all the birds were singing kind of early. Stiles sighed as he let him in. This was going to be another of those conversations.

“First things first,” Danny said, finger accusingly raised before Stiles could so much as say hello. “I am not here to discuss your gay crisis or your relationship with Derek. I don't care. You are both smart enough and old enough to figure yourselves out without anyone else pushing you out of the closet.”

Stiles blinked. Not one of those conversations then. “Uh, okay, I... appreciate it, I think. What brings you here before noon?”

Danny shifted on his feet, eyes fixed somewhere behind Stiles' shoulder. “Helen made me an offer.”

Rage burned through him, hot and quick like lightning. As much as he respected the older alpha, Danny and the rest of the Hale pack were his now, his responsibility, his _family_. Danny's heartbeat spiked wildly and Stiles tried to get his shift under control. It took some serious effort, but Danny didn't say anything, just waited out the display of werewolf stupidity like the badass he was.

“Sorry,” Stiles said after a few calming breaths. “You were saying?” He led the way to the kitchen where he offered Danny a glass of milk.

Danny eyed him, unimpressed. “She said I smelled off, like I didn't know where I belonged. She said I was always welcome with her. It was a bit creepy, actually.”

Stiles bit on his tongue to keep from yelling. “What did you tell her?” Obviously he was here, right, so he couldn't have said yes. He wouldn't come to Stiles for farewells if he'd made up his mind to go.

Biting his lower lip, Danny looked a lot younger than usual. “That I already have a pack. Thanks, but no thanks.”

Stiles nodded. Of course. “Right, so why-”

“She looked at me with that really weird expression, like maybe she knew something I didn't. And then she said if I needed a place, I would have it, no questions asked. What is she talking about, Stiles?”

“I have honestly no idea, Danny. You're pack just as I was, just as Allison is. Don't need to be a wolf for that. But, uh, if that's what you're asking...” Stiles trailed off and flailed in the general direction of Danny's waist and his mouth.

Danny visibly deflated, shaking his head. “I don't know, maybe. It's not something I've really thought about before and I don't think I'd want to explain the eyes and the teeth and claws to my boyfriend.”

Stiles grinned. “Don't forget the Elvis sideburns.”

Rolling his eyes, Danny took a sip of the milk. “How could I forget? It's like an Elvis-impersonator convention every time you guys wolf out. I have to pinch myself not to burst out laughing half the time.”

They made a few more werewolf jokes before his dad came in with the groceries and set them to work. As they were putting away the meat and veggies, Danny sighed.

“Say I was interested, just hypothetically, do you think it could be you?”

Stiles fumbled the bell peppers and nearly dropped them. “You want me to bite you? Oh my god, why do you want me to bite you?”

Danny glared at him. “I was just asking. If I want it, could you do it, or does it have to be Derek?”

Stiles cocked his head. After everything that happened with the rogue wolves, he honestly had no clue. Derek might know, but then he might be as clueless as the rest of them. It seemed to be a theme these days. “Honestly, it might be safer if he does it. Especially with the weirdness from the not-bond and all.”

Danny groaned. “Okay, yeah, I'm not telling you to get married to creepy Miguel just because the thought of him putting his mouth anywhere near my vital organs terrifies me.”

Stiles choked out a laugh. “He's not that creepy.”

“He hates me, okay. Ever since that stunt you pulled with the shirts! He probably thinks I'm some kind of pervert.”

“I could totally stealthily ask him about it. Like a ninja.”

Laughing, Danny shook his head. “Dude, you are about as subtle as a hippo in a puddle, don't hurt yourself trying.”

Stiles could totally pull it off. He could. Even before this whole stupid alpha bond stuff, Stiles had had a way with Derek, getting information out of him that no one else could. They'd been on their way to becoming friends, slowly but steadily. A year or two and they might have ended up where they were now, except less with the freaking lifetime commitments.

“Danny, my man,” Stiles said as he draped his arm over Danny's shoulder, looming with the best of them. “If you make sure that none of those other idiots bother Derek about the bond, I will find out anything you need to know, including whether or not he thinks you're a pervert.”

“I brought this on myself,” Danny said, shaking his head. “I really have only myself to blame.”

+

His car was purring quietly, waiting for him to decide whether to go in at all or run like a dog with its tail between its legs. He could hear the faint echoes of their voices all mingling together. The whole pack was there, celebrating their miraculous survival once again. This wasn't the first time they were letting loose after a crisis, but it was the first time with the Sheriff cooking and Stiles as a wolf. It felt different somehow. Bigger.

There really was no point in running away. Stiles and the others would haunt him as relentlessly as Laura's ghost. He felt her at his back every day, but as long as he did well, she seemed content to fade into the shadows unseen. The presence was tinged with warmth and love, so much so that he could barely call her a ghost at all. Maybe she was something ridiculous like a guardian angel. Who knew, maybe it wasn't just monsters and dark magic all the time in the realm of the supernatural. There could be good things, too.

He felt a cool breeze on the back of his neck. “Alright,” he said, smiling a little as he turned off the ignition. “I'm going. Don't be so bossy.”

The Sheriff let him in with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. The pack was a lot to take all at once, especially when they were happy rather than trying to survive or wait for a friend to heal from his injuries. “Great,” the Sheriff said as he pressed a can of diet coke in Derek's hand, “someone else they can pester while I grill the burgers. Do not let them destroy any furniture or appliances that can't be replaced.”

Derek nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Stiliniski, I'll make sure they restrict their rampages to the plates and cups.”

The Sheriff laughed and grasped his shoulder. “I see we understand each other. Good. Now take care of the rabble. There might even be some steak in it for you. Rare, I assume?”

Derek shrugged. “Medium's fine. I'm not a vampire.”

“Please tell me vampires do not exist and that this was your terrible attempt at a joke,” the Sheriff said, but the corner of his mouth was twitching. Derek didn't dignify that with an answer. At least he could see where Stiles got his sass.

The pack had laid claim to the kitchen and living room in a siege that involved a lot of lounging and shouting. Lydia and Allison were the sole rulers of the couch and Stiles held court from the countertop left of the stove.

“No, that's not a dip, it's a pepper sauce. You're supposed to put it on your steak.”

Derek could feel himself smile. “Why would anyone want to ruin the perfection of a good steak like that?”

The room went eerily quiet as everyone looked between him and Stiles. They were waiting for something, for some kind of grand finale, a romantic comedy showdown. And for a moment, when Stiles smiled at him like nothing else in the world mattered, Derek almost believed it, too.

“Hey,” Stiles said. “Nice of you to come in. And just so you know, your car makes a really annoying ticking sound when it idles.” Rolling his eyes, Stiles went back to supervising the creation of the chili, which amounted to bossing around Allison and Scott and sticking the wooden spoon in it every time they added a spice.

Derek spent most of the next half hour staring at Stiles. He watched every movement, listened to ever hitch of breath, the steady beat of his heart. It was calming even though he felt unsettled, anxious to do something, even if he wasn't quite sure what that was. The Sheriff pulled him aside before they were all ready to sit down, two beers in hand.

“Here, take it, drink it, and don't complain. I know it doesn't do anything for you but give me the illusion of not drinking alone.”

Derek did what he was told. They settled outside, watching the meat sizzle and pop. At the back of his mind, he still tracked Stiles' every exhale, every shift of his body.

“I think I'm supposed to threaten you, as a father.” The Sheriff took a sip of his beer and grimaced at the bitterness. “That's what all the movies say. I'm supposed to be the bad guy, keeping young lovers apart.”

Derek nearly choked on his own beer. “Sir, we're not-”

The Sheriff glared at him, sarcasm evident in every unimpressed line of his face. “I know. Believe me, I know. But listen, there are things I'm supposed to say here. That I'd kill you if you ever hurt him, that you better treat him right.”

Derek watched his own knuckles turn white as he squeezed the bottle to near breaking. Fascinating, really. “It's not like that,” was all Derek could bring himself to say.

“Don't I know it. I was worried before, you know, because you're so much older and unlike the others, you grew up different. You always knew you weren't human and that's gotta mess with a kid's head.” He placed a hand on Derek's shoulder and it felt like reassurance and warning in one. “And everything that happened, the fire, your sister, killing your uncle twice, that's a mess I wouldn't wish on my son for anything.”

Swallowing down the bile of truth, Derek stared at the small, controlled fire that was making their food palatable. Everything was about balance in the end, everything could be good and evil, it only depended on one's point of view. Derek sighed. “I won't bother him, I promise. When he's ready, I can probably leave. The pack could choose either of us, after a while. At least I think so. All it takes is time.”

“Son,” the Sheriff said, and the word stung like icy rain piercing his skin. “I wasn't sure until just now, but you are as much of an idiot as Stiles and you two deserve each other.”

“What?”

“It's not my place to tell you what to do, but even with all that baggage, I haven't seen my son happier than he was those few weeks where you two were both pretending that neither of you was really in love. And I will be the first to tell you that love isn't enough, that relationships are hard work and a whole lot of luck, but if you're worried about that, then don't be.”

“I-”

The Sheriff got up, bones creaking ominously and Derek was reminded of the way his grandma would complain about the weather in her joints. “Listen kid, I'm not going to play matchmaker for my son because as much as I think you're a good guy, there's a hell of a lot of good guys or girls out there with a lot fewer issues. You and I both know that life's fleeting and it's up to you whether or not to waste this chance.” A pause, as the Sheriff's hand left his shoulder, and then an amused tone crept into the man's voice. “Also, my son has probably been eavesdropping on this conversation from the beginning. Good luck with that.”

Derek waited. He couldn't think of anything he'd enjoy less than forcing the issue. They had revealed some uncomfortable truths to each other late at night, when it was hard to know the difference between reality and dreams, but Derek wasn't exactly the sharing type. Laura always called him a grumpy pup when he refused to tell her how he felt about stuff, like where they would live or what to have for dinner. This was infinitely worse than picking a take-out place.

When Stiles dropped into the chair his dad had vacated a few minutes earlier, he smelled like fear and pack. “Hey.”

Derek kept staring at his hands, it was easier that way. “Hey.”

“So, uh, we don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to.”

Derek really didn’t want to. The condensation on his beer bottle had made his hands clammy, or maybe that was the insane anxiety making itself known. “What else is there to talk about?”

Stiles chuckled, knocking their shoulders together like good friends would. Maybe that could be true someday. Derek would settle for that. “Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that Danny thinks you hate his guts?”

Derek frowned, a little thrown by the change of subject. “I don't hate Danny.” He hadn't spared Danny much thought these last few weeks though, and now that he did, he was surprised to find that things had changed. Maybe Derek had changed. “Danny is pack.” And he had no idea how long that had been true, but it was now.

“See, that's what I said, but he's not really over the whole shirt incident. He thinks you're not over the whole shirt incident.”

Taking a sip from his beer, Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles, not hiding the smirk. “I will never be over the shirt incident.”

“You slammed my head into a steering wheel, I think we're even.”

“I saved your life.”

“I saved yours back.”

Derek smiled because indignant Stiles was one of the few things that could just brighten his day without even trying. Stiles had a tendency to flail and splutter when he felt he wasn't being taken seriously on subjects that weren't all that serious. Their little competition of saving each other had somehow become a point of pride, like winning at Halo.

“So,” Stiles said after explaining the many ways that he was ahead in the life-saving stakes. “We don't ever have to talk about it, if you don't want to. It doesn't have to be a thing. You wanted to save me and take care of your pack and...” He trailed off, making a vague gesture that was inadequate to describe all the reasons Derek had convinced himself he had for doing this. It was funny, in a way, because only one reason seemed to matter now.

The words were on the tip of Derek's tongue, sitting heavy and unpronounceable. “Stiles,” he said instead. He didn't know how to finish the thought, how to say all the things that were important. This should be easier, probably. He was fairly sure of his own feelings and Stiles had been radiating desire for weeks. “I- we should talk about it.”

Stiles stared at him, head tilted questioningly, a spark in his eyes that scared Derek to the bone. “We should... but you don't know how?”

Derek felt a little bit like a fluffy critter in the sights of a predator. All he needed were a pair of bunny ears. He nodded.

“Alright, hey, if there's something I can do, it's talk. Just stop me when I've hit jackpot. You know, make a dinging sound like a few bells going off.”

“This was a terrible idea,” Derek noted dryly. Stiles wore that expression he got whenever someone threw him an impossible challenge, the _you haven't seen a terrible idea until you've seen a human face down an alpha and win_ expression.

“Oh, sure, objectively it's like giving a gun to a toddler, but crazy has worked for us before.”

Derek snorted. “Crazy got us here in the first place.”

This time, though, Stiles didn't smile or make a joke of it. “It's not such a bad place to be, is it? I know if you had to choose you wouldn't pick me, but it could be so much worse. You could be semi-soulbonded to Jackson.”

Derek shuddered, but not because the image of living his life with Jackson as his constant companion was giving him the chills. He wanted this like he hadn’t wanted anything in years. “I would pick you,” he said, almost without any input from his higher brain functions. It was the truth, but that didn't mean he wanted it out in the open.

Stiles froze and his face got caught somewhere between disbelief and anger. “You are not allowed to joke about that, you know. It's in the rules. Right under no throat ripping out on Sundays.”

Derek was oddly hopeful now, at Stiles’ irritation. This was serious for both of them and bad jokes might be the only way they could communicate sometimes, but they were in this together. “Why Sundays?”

Stiles rubbed his hair, groaning with frustration. “I don't know, okay! I made it up to cover for being terrified of where this conversation is going to go.”

Everything about this moment was ridiculous and Derek couldn't keep down the laughter. He shouldn't laugh, there was a fifty-fifty chance that it could it fuck everything beyond comprehension if Stiles thought Derek was laughing at him. But the laughter let him breathe more freely.

“Wow, you're either a huge asshole or you're having a psychotic break. And I'm not sure which one I'd prefer right about now.”

Derek shook himself and forced his gaze to latch onto something boring, like the meat on the low flame. There had always been something hypnotic about barbequing that frying in a pan just couldn't compare to and his dad used to swear by the judicious application of cheap beer for dousing too high flames. He focused on the grill to get his hysteria under control.

“I think I'm afraid,” Derek said quietly, after a few agonizing moments.

Stiles snorted. “Welcome to the club, buddy. We have a secret handshake and everything.”

Silence was both easier and harder than words. They sat side by side, pressed into each other from knee to shoulder. Derek could probably stay like this forever, just on the cusp of having to make the leap. Things were not so bad if he just ignored the longing in his gut. They could keep going like this until Stiles inevitably found someone better and then Derek would deal with it the way he'd dealt with everything emotionally complex in his life, by ignoring the shit out of it. Sublimation was his middle name.

Or he could stop being such a goddamn coward.

He turned to Stiles because he needed to see his face for this. “The bond isn't some magical ball and chain that will get someone hitched against their will. It's a choice. If I were bonded to you, it would be because I wanted to be.”

Stiles swallowed. His lips looked kind of dry, chapped. Derek had to fight the urge to lick them. “Yeah, but, I mean, it's what you'd do for any of the others, right?”

“I would try to save their life. But it probably wouldn't work.”

“What are you saying?” Stiles' heart was beating a mile a minute and Derek could feel his own pulse trying to match the pace.

He took Stiles' hand. “You can't really fake loving someone to yourself, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked. He opened his mouth but for once he couldn't seem to find the words. Except-

“Whoa, okay, seriously, fuck you so much. Oh god.” Despite his outburst he was grasping Derek's hand like a lifeline. “You knew? All this time, you knew?”

Derek finally saw what he’d missed for so long. He was not alone in _any_ of this. He felt a little dizzy with the revelation. “About you? For about ten seconds, give or take. About myself? A while. Not as long as it could have been.”

“Oh my fucking god, we seriously suck.” Then Stiles blushed all the way down his neck when the implication of the words hit him. He glared at Derek. “Not like that. Unless you're up for it, then yes, any time, right now even. We can take the Camaro and leave the pack with the dishes. We can park by your house, if you need it to be a bit creepy.”

Derek shook his head, barely restraining himself from taking Stiles and running away with him. “It's forever, Stiles.” He needed to offer the out. If this was going to happen, Stiles needed to be free to make a choice. “We can't just-”

“Oh no,” Stiles said, nostrils flaring. There was a hint of red in his eyes and the power made Derek's hair stand on end. “No more self-sacrificial bullshit. You know who else mates for life, Derek? Humans do. When we're serious about someone, we can never imagine an end, a life without that one person. Look at my dad and tell me humans aren't just as stupid about love as wolves are, I dare you.”

“Stiles-”

“No,” Stiles said, staring him down. “You are not protecting me from my own choices. I've spent nearly ten years loving a single person and I think I will never not love her. My feelings don't change with the tide, Derek. I am the fucking moon, okay. I make the tide. And when I say that I want to be with you, I mean it now and forever. I don't do flings or summer romance.”

Derek stared at their hands, knotted together like a promise. “I'm not...” _worth it. Not good enough for you_. He stopped himself from saying the words out loud because even in his own mind they sounded like the part of him that had been wasting away since the fire, burned out and hollow. They were Kate's words, her voice telling him that he deserved only the pain that continued life would bring.

Stiles voice softened. “I still can't believe you'd even want me and here I am trying to convince you that I won't change my mind. How crazy is that?”

And Derek knew then and without doubt that Stiles would let it go, if he asked him to. They could go back to becoming friends. They could snark at each other and time-share the pack and one day either or both of them would fully move on. They could. None of this was a compulsion anymore, there were no circumstances pushing them together, no ancient werewolf magic. And Stiles would let it slip away, maybe not content, but used to rejection as an integral part of love. He'd let Derek lick his wounds in private and pretend he didn't want more, because that's what Derek wanted.

Except Derek didn't want that at all. He wanted everything. “Crazy worked for us before.”

For a moment, Stiles didn't get it and Derek's blood pressure plummeted; a fear he'd never really acknowledged coming to the fore – what if he'd read Stiles wrong, in their reluctant, sideways style of communication? What if all he got for taking the leap was a long fall?

Sometimes, though, it just took Stiles a while to process. Derek was helpless against the bright grin breaking out on Stiles' face. He leaned closer, tugging Stiles forward by the hand, and noted the spicy scent of anxiety and relief. “I thought I should warn you,” he whispered, eyes occupied with the wet sheen on Stiles' lower lip. “I'm about to kiss you.”

“I'm totally okay with-”

Their lips met almost harshly, a sudden urgency taking hold of them. Derek licked Stiles' mouth open, demanding to be let in, now that he was sure of his welcome. Stiles moaned. His strong, long-fingered hands came up to frame Derek's face, running through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Oh, okay, this is good,” Stiles said between short, deep kisses. “Remind me why we haven't been doing this all the time?”

Derek groaned and pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Stiles'. “Because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop at just this.”

Stiles nodded, the movement sliding their skin together, almost like a nuzzle. “Right, yeah, and that would be bad. Because of things.”

Derek pressed a soft kiss to the skin below Stiles' ear. “You're young and I remembered myself at your age, how stupid and reckless I'd been. I didn't want to be the thing that hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me, not like what you're thinking and you know it. You're not made that way.” Stiles didn't kiss him again, but there was an openness – a trust – in his expression that made Derek want to be everything Stiles could want him to be. Everything he never thought he could be.

“I don't know that and you can't know that either.”

“Yeah, well,” and now there was anger under the surface, the alpha resonating with Stiles' words. “Maybe I trust myself enough to know that I'm more than willing to take that risk. Maybe you're worth that and so much more. And if you think you aren't, then at least trust me to damn well know better.”

Derek smiled, a soft, fragile thing that fluttered like a small bird bathing in a puddle of dust. “I wasn't saying no, Stiles.”

“That's not the same as saying yes.”

Of course, Stiles would notice that small yet vital difference. Derek sighed, tension leaving his muscles as he gave in and rested his head on Stiles' shoulder. “Then I'll say yes, but give me some time; let's take it slow. Let me learn how to be the kind of person I want to be for you.”

Stiles' heart had been beating fast but steady, but now it sounded like a manic drummer had taken up residence in his chest. “That's the most ridiculously romantic and corny line I have ever heard. You are so lucky I love you or I'd be out of here. Like that.” He made some kind of gesture but Derek couldn't parse it. Or words. Or how breathing worked.

“You...” He studied Stiles' face, waiting for deception, but there was nothing behind the stupid, adoring grin.

“Well, yeah.”

He wanted to say something back, but words seemed beyond him. He did the next best thing, lunging forward and capturing Stiles in a desperate kiss, trying to convey all that he couldn't say. They kissed hard, sparring for some kind of prize, and Derek got lost in the sensation of Stiles' hands running over his hair, skin, and clothes.

And then Scott's voice intruded on the haze of Stiles, making Derek growl with the loss as Stiles startled. “Oh my god, you guys, seriously.” Outrage seeped from every pore of Scott's body as he yelled at them.

Stiles huffed. “What? This can't possibly come as a shock to anyone. You were all planning the names for our grandchildren for god's sake. You had a sign with glitter on it!”

With reality crashing back into Derek's awareness, his subconscious alerted him to something disturbing, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He was still staring at Stiles like he was afraid he'd disappear if Derek let him out of his sight.

“Stiles, no, I don't care about that, why would you even think that?”

“Uh, maybe because you're making a scene?”

Derek still felt hazy, when a familiar scent made him nauseous.

“Dude, I'm not mad because you're sucking face with Derek Hale. I'm mad because you set our dinner on fire!”

Scott was right. The burgers had turned into charred, plum-sized briquets and the steaks were actually burning in several spots. Derek hadn't noticed. For years the smell of smoke had haunted his every waking moment and now, for just a moment, his mind had been so filled up with Stiles and this strange warmth that there was no space for fire.

Derek laughed and it hurt a little, the way it broke out of him. He laughed so hard that tears began to stream down his face, and he could hear Stiles and Scott freak out a little, but he couldn't really reassure them. He thought maybe something in him was broken, or actually, maybe something in him was beginning to fix itself.

“Hey, Derek, you okay, buddy?” Stiles sounded worried. Derek didn't want to worry him.

“I-” he gasped. “I will be. I'll be okay, just give me a minute.” He'd be _okay_.

Somewhere in the distance, just on the edge of hearing, Derek heard the howling of wolves. It was a happy sound, tinged with loss, but never resignation. The melody of their voices felt like heritage, the home he'd loved so much as a child, the place that had been lost but never forgotten. It was no longer an open wound.

Laura's voice carried over the noise of his new pack trying to salvage what they could of their dinner. “I love you, pup.”

Derek smiled, his eyes finding Stiles in the center of the commotion. “I love you.” They both smiled, and Derek knew this was going to work, even with all their issues piling on top of each other. This felt like a second chance at life and he was going to take the leap.

He wrapped his arms around Stiles and didn't stop kissing him even when their entire pack latched onto them in the most epic group hugs of all time. Puppy piles were going to be a thing, he could tell, and contrary to popular opinion – _“You? Yeah right!” “Shut up, Stiles!”_ – Derek was surprisingly okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who put up with me during the creation of this story. It must seem awfully silly now, after season 2 threw us all for a loop, but with my non-fannish life in chaos, it became something of a symbol. This is a love story, about Teen Wolf, about the fandom and about the mad tropes and clichés I love.
> 
> Special thanks to Ekalbacher, who looked over this final chapter. If any mistakes or inconsistencies are left, they are my own mistakes.
> 
> If you liked this story, I'm currently trying to fund my first novel on Inkshares. [A queer sci-fi novel with ladies in space ships.](http://www.inkshares.com/books/jump-the-gun)


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